Here the Frailest Leaves of Me; Sometimes with One I Love

Here the frailest leaves of me and yet my strongest lasting, 

Here I shade and hide my thoughts, I myself do not expose them,

And yet they expose me more than all my other poems.


Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage

for fear I effuse unreturn’d love,

But now I think there is no unreturn’d love,

the pay is certain one way or another,

(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return’d,

Yet out of that I have written these songs.)

~Walt Whitman.

The Hours.

We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep. It’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out windows, or drown themselves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devoured by some disease, or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. There’s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds & expectations, to burst open & give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning, we hope, more than anything for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so.

~Michael Cunningham.


Hopeless endeavors:

I wish I could plant my aching ambitions in your ribcage

so you would carry me between your shoulder blades;

I would give up most things

to continue studying the etchings of your face,

if only to sketch them as they grow older,

to play hookie between the sheets with your limbs, teaching mine a lesson in subtleties.

Please understand, it’s not because of shallow infatuation that I simmer in these thoughts

(I know what I said, of geographies),

It’s just that your eyes are the most comfortable canvas to gaze into

and the puzzle of your quiet curiosities

is one that I don’t want to stop solving.

Don’t write me off as impatient–all I have is time–

I’m simply hoping to imply that my wandering heart will wait for you

without wondering

at regret.


bell hooks.

How different things might be if, rather than saying “I think I’m in love,” we were saying “I’ve connected with someone in a way that makes me think I’m on the way to knowing love.” Or if instead of saying “I am in love” we say “I am loving” or “I will love.” Our patterns around romantic love are unlikely to change if we do not change our language.

~bell hooks, All About Love, New Visions