Despite cutting himself on every thorn,
slicing into skin
and, sometimes,
down to bone,
he was left with only this thought,
‘I love her.
I love her despite the risk
and pain of thorns.
I love the sweet scent and soft touch
on the petals of her rose.
I love all that comes with her,
not just the beauty
and the fragrance,
her sweetness,
but the challenge,
the danger,
the unknown.’
© E.L.
That Were Precious
© E.L.
I struggle to cling to memories
slick and fluid
memories that have nothing
for me to hold on to
memories that eat my tears
but do not absorb or remove this pain
this ache
and refuse to touch my heart
with any gentleness
with any kindness
memories that were precious
when made
-photo by Mira Nedyalkova
=^.^=
Captured this in the sky.
So creepy.
5/30/2016 3:27am
~ Jean-Jacques Henner (1829-1905), Solitude, 1886
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
~ George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824)
Our Own Light
© E.L.
You were the sun
and I was the moon
far apart
and opposite
in what we loved
in how we loved
and in the ways
we saw
and touched the world
yet brilliant
and beautiful
each
in our own way
each
with our own light
yours
cast by day
warm and blazing
reaching all
mine
cool and quiet
reaching only those
who like the night
-photoart by © Foto Artistike
Album: w nocy / at night
