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Between your lips,
the dark field meets a night sky. I am inside
each ragged breath and the pause between.

Carole Glasser Langille, from “When You’re Not Here and When You Are,” Late in a Slow Time (Mansfield Press, 2003)

(Source: a-pair-of-ragged-claws, via contramonte)

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.

Anaïs Nin

(Source: words-of-emotion, via symphonyofthecosmos)