“Pure your gentle name, pure your fragile life,
bees, shadows, fire, snow, silence and foam,
combined with steel and wire and
pollen to make up your firm
and delicate being.”—Pablo Neruda, part of Tina Modotti’s epitaph. (via lareinaperdida)
I want to live with you in a treehouse. It will look over a stream and there will be a tire swing. When we're quiet enough, we'll be able to hear leaves crumple together on their branches and flies will buzz as they go from arm to arm. We'll always be barefoot and draw on each other's skin with the tips of our fingers. That's all I want, and I want it all with you.
Commence TEARS AND HYSTERIA NOW. Commence sobbing and the use of many, many kleenex, tissues, and even my grandmother’s handkerchief. I’ve been told many have been through this before and I say, IT STILL HURTS LIKE HELL!