* By Alexey Dubinsky

maybe i have been thinking with my heart far too long rather than my mind and i have been speaking from my soul rather than my mouth and i have been seeing with my bones rather than my eyes and trust me when i say i love you more than the air i inhale

k.m (via fluohrine)

back in paris. 22 ideas for poems & short texts. massive amount of work for the upcoming months. im v excited to deepen on these thoughts. 

396 photos merged into one image using the lighten blending mode in photoshop. I think this one pretty much covers the colour spectrum of sunsets, lacking only the darker reds. I can’t get enough of this technique!

my grandparents film from Italy 🌥

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air

Sylvia Plath, 1962 (via: skinthepoet)

You’re standing in a room you used to know so well, a hand on the doorframe when it starts. The walls blur and your shirt’s off; there’s a hand reaching for your waist. Almost an invitation. Almost something more. How many times has this body been almost touched? The world rights itself and you’re past the first exhibit. You move inside, past the books, the poems, the lists you almost finished. You’re sitting on the edge of a bed when it hits you again: a mouth on your mouth, a hand on your thigh. Almost an argument. Almost a mistake. You could call this the exhibit of personal significance. You move toward the window, making note of the sideshows playing out around you. The time you almost saw the streets of Spain. All the nights you almost saw the sun rise. All the times you almost reached out to someone but didn’t. Your mind’s moving someplace else now, to a series of snapshots. Eyes in different colors, blurry faces thrown back in laughter, hands poised around drawing pencils. Freckles on shoulder caps, tattoos in small corners of the body. Tell me, how many people have you almost loved?  Call this the art gallery. Call this the main attraction.

Kelsey Danielle, “Call Me a Series of Almosts” (via pigmenting)

Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not knowing how much I loved them. I am so lonely in my glory.

Allen Ginsberg, “Transcription of Organ Music,” Howl (via millionen)