This morning I woke up to warm kisses in my ear, a happy tongue between my lips, his hands holding my hips. We ran along the cold beach, seaweed popping between my toes and our breaths aligned, in that perfect moment between sunrise and the arrival of the tourists. And his mom makes me waffles with fresh fruit piled on top, a mug of coffee to propel me though my day, and I know that I belong here.
Home again, home again, home again. And it’s the beginning of a beautiful summer.
a sex position called the gatsby where you stare longingly at your partner from a distance and scream old sport when you climax
(via jumpandsplash)
The one that traces my dark circles, strange geometry revealing the quiet places in my body, the most melancholy.
The one that fills me full of blue blue nights, restless as a dog chained to an empty gas station, plagued by dreams and mosquitos.
The one that makes me feel as luminous and structured as the right rib of the lit moon, caught like a pebble between my perfect teeth.
“Falling asleep with you is the best type of falling”
Oh, oh, oh. If only you knew how much I love and miss you, my friend.
Gwenyth Paltrow’s newsletter makes me feel all kinds of inappropriate things for bar accessories and ceramic serving platters and green juices.
I’m about that life.
My favorite part of a man
are his hands.
Rough enough to soothe my body
like an ocean-tossed pebble.
