o wayward star


VI. He never broke my heart. He only turned it into a compass that always points me back to him.

—Clementine von Radics, In Defense of Loving Him (after Megan Falley)

(Source: silhouettesofspilledink, via swanfucker)

There are poems
that are never written,
that simply move across
the mind
like skywriting
on a still day;
slowly the first word
drifts west,
the last letters dissolve
on the tongue,
and what is left
is the pure blue
of insight, without cloud
or comfort.

—Linda Pastan, “There Are Poems” (via sina-santi2)

(via gypsji)

I am a fist of my unease
as I spill towards the stars
in the empty years.

—Anne Sexton, from The Complete Poems (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via thepoetoaster)

She is so stubborn, her heart has an argument with her head every time it wants to beat.

—Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless 
  (via andthisandmoretoo)

(Source: heartsnatcher, via an-itinerant-poet)