(Source: , via feelfearless)
"There is an old poem by Neruda that I’ve always been captivated by, and one of the first lines in it has stuck with me ever since the first time i read it. It says "love is so short, forgetting is so long". It’s a line I’ve related to in my saddest moments, when i needed to know someone else had felt the exact same way.” (RED prologue)
sometimes i walk on a certain path,
or the sky turns a certain colour,
or the trees shake a certain way, i’ve never been the type to notice them - they’re only fucking trees - but they move a certain way, right? and that’s enough to get me started:
is it called melancholy?
sometimes i say something or hear something or think something i swear has been said before - by you?
i’m not mistaken, i’m sure, a reminder that we’re carved from the same stone - you and i - minutia i used to smile for, christ i still smile, as strange as it is now;
is it really so different at all?
It’s always like this.
I catch their scent and
old feelings come around.
still, we know one another,
All I want is to take my quilts,
spread them beside the porch rail,
and deep in the night,
at ease together,
speak of longing, of love.
In every bar there’s someone sitting alone and absolutely absorbed
by whatever he’s seeing in the glass in front of him,
a glass that looks ordinary, with something clear or dark
inside it, something partially drunk but never completely gone.
Everything’s there: all the plans that came to nothing,
the stupid love affairs, and the terrifying ones, the ones where
opened like a hole beneath his feet and he fell in, then lay helpless
while the dirt rained down a little at a time to bury him.
And his friends are there, cracking open six-packs, raising the
the click of their meeting like the sound of a pool cue
nicking a ball, the wrong ball, that now edges, black and shining,
toward the waiting pocket. But it stops short, and at the bar the
signals for another. Now the relatives are floating up
with their failures, with cancer, with plateloads of guilt
and a little laughter, too, and even beauty—some afternoon from
a lake, a ball game, a book of stories, a few flurries of snow
that thicken and gradually cover the earth until the whole
world’s gone white and quiet, until there’s hardly a world
at all, no traffic, no money or butchery or sex,
just a blessed peace that seems final but isn’t. And finally
the glass that contains and spills this stuff continually
while the drinker hunches before it, while the bartender gathers
up empties, gives back the drinker’s own face. Who knows what it
who cares whether or not it was young once, or ever lovely,
who gives a shit about some drunk rising to stagger toward
the bathroom, some man or woman or even lost
angel who recklessly threw it all over—heaven, the ether,
the celestial works—and said, Fuck it, I want to be human?
Who believes in angels, anyway? Who has time for anything
but their own pleasures and sorrows, for the few good people
they’ve managed to gather around them against the uncertainty,
against afternoons of sitting alone in some bar
with a name like the Embers or the Ninth Inning or the Wishing
Forget that loser. Just tell me who’s buying, who’s paying;
Christ but I’m thirsty, and I want to tell you something,
come close I want to whisper it, to pour
the words burning into you, the same words for each one of you,
listen, it’s simple, I’m saying it now, while I’m still sober,
while I’m not about to weep bitterly into my own glass,
while you’re still here—don’t go yet, stay, stay,
give me your shoulder to lean against, steady me, don’t let me
I’m so in love with you I can’t stand up."