These are the days that must happen to you. Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road (via purplebuddhaproject)

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There is no
for happiness.
No amount of kisses,
farmer markets,
cups of tea,
or core-shaking laughs
will fix you.
You have to save yourself.
You have to
for that peace. Michelle K., Recipe for Happiness  (via lykereally)

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In today’s news: a chance of rain and a moon that rises like a burnt peach
over the two of us in bed.
Years ago, a close friend got an inner thigh tattoo of a compass rose
To remind her that despite the man who hurt her,
She still knew exactly where she was going.
Tonight, I place all the tea bags from my first lover in a pile and frost
the hardwood floors with their insides
before lighting them on fire.
The rain begins.
These are the times when our spines meet like trapdoors
and we unhinge into each other beneath the covers, when vodka
erases the difference between skin and sinew.
This close friend also rode a city flood for sixteen miles
on the picture frame of her first wedding photo
because there was no other debris around to float upon.
Since we met, it has been all storms.
But so far, our own wedding photo has no water damage,
and they are all the kind of storms
that begin with thunder and end with warm amber light
that washes over the fields
the same way your silhouette washes over mine.
My compass needle always points to you. Writings for Winter: The Weather Forecaster 
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merci  by emma block on Flickr.