That morning I heard water being poured into a teapot. The sound was an ordinary, daily, cluffy sound. But all at once, I knew you loved me. An unheard-of thing, love audible in water falling.
Robert Bly, from Talking Into the Ear of a Donkey (via Confusion Is)
(Source: wwnorton, via unicornology)
I don’t ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there’ll always be the person I am tonight.
F. Scott Fitzgerald (via bridgetothenextisland)
(Source: vavin, via pacebike)
Anne Sexton sometimes seemed like a woman without skin. She felt everything so intensely, had so little capacity to filter out pain that everyday events often seemed unbearable to her. Paradoxically it is also that skinlessness which makes a poet. One must have the gift of language, but even a great gift is useless without the other curse: the eyes that see so sharply they often want to close.
Erica Jong, about the poet Anne Sexton (via like-a-cut)
(Source: spookie-delights, via poetbabble)