Release the hounds.

Heaven has its dents.
I'll let you know, you aren't perfection,
But you're close,
and that will do, for me.

I'm finding happiness doesn't come as tidy as it leaves;
It rises from the memory
Of the hundred sorry nights
you just had to survive.

And congrats, you're still alive,
but it's gone again.
A hundred more.
A giant mess stretched on the floor.

You can set the wolves upon us now.
They'll run us down, but we can drive.
Do you know how you will die?
You'll be alone, but not tonight.

S. 

{Photo: Search-the-Wolves Flickr}

Dimmer.

I don't claim to have ever known the love of another. I have nothing but the feeling of my chest caving under the weight of two easy stares to measure against that poetic verb. 

I'm getting better at occupying the chasm, though. I fill it with music and words and empty touches, reaching moments of near contentedness. But too easily does it drain at the sight of ebony hair and a sweet smile dancing in a faultless rhythm, while I clap clumsily on the side. 

Mind you, I am thankful in my own way. My nomadic spirit rejoices - singing a melody of freedom - beside my longing soul. Fall in love with other things, it tells me, with languages and places and people you will never meet, with strangers in the check-out line. Fall in love with the mysteries of the world, with knowledge, friendships, and the perfect cinnamon latte before you let the sun outshines the moonbeams. 

And that adventure is something to behold, when it isn't so distracted by a grin in another direction. 

S. 

{Photo: Adriano Sondré Photography}

Before the dawn.

I am done with my graceless heart, so tonight I'm going to cut it out and then restart.

Florence Welch

{Photo: Viola Cangi Flickr}