The night isn’t dark; the world is dark.
Stay with me a little longer.

Your hands on the back of the chair—
that’s what I’ll remember.
Before that, lightly stroking my shoulders.
Like a man training himself to avoid the heart.

In the other room, the maid discreetly
putting out the light I read by.

That room with its chalk walls—
how will it look to you I wonder
once your exile begins? I think your eyes will seek out
its light as opposed to the moon.
Apparently, after so many years, you need
distance to make plain its intensity.

Your hands on the chair, stroking
my body and the wood in exactly the same way.
Like a man who wants to feel longing again,
who prizes longing above all other emotion.

On the beach, voices of the Greek farmers,
impatient for sunrise.
As though dawn will change them
from farmers into heroes.

And before that, you are holding me because you are going away—
these are statements you are making,
not questions needing answers.

How can I know you love me
unless I see you grieve over me?

—  Louise Glück, from Poems 1962-2012

씨엘씨(CLC) - ‘궁금해 (Like)’


씨엘씨(CLC) - ‘궁금해 (Like)’ MV

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anonymous asked:

imagine steve woke up while bucky was pulling him out of the potomac at the end of tws

He gasps back to consciousness when his back thumps down on something solid, and he has a half second of looking up at the sky, gasping for breath through still water logged lungs, to see a dark shape hovering above him, just as familiar as it was foreign, before he’s trying to cough up the water in his lungs. He needs to roll over to his side, to recovery position, but his muscles aren’t co-operating.

Probably doesn’t help he’s trying to speak through his coughs, to talk to Bucky, but all he’s managing is to choke himself. His vision starts to go dotty again, the lack of oxygen so soon after almost drowning just about knocking him out again.

But there’s a large hand on his shoulder, and he’s being turned onto his side. A firm hand patting his back, right between his lungs, right in the place that always helped most with his asthma, and he starts coughing up the water, finally. He gets enough air, briefly, to say most of Bucky’s name - gets cut off after a gasped Buc- because there’s no room between coughing and struggling to breath for talking.

“Shh, buddy, I’m here.” Buckys voice is still rough, no where near the soft, soothing voice he used to say that in, when Steve still got asthma attacks, but it’s the most comforting thing Steve’s heard since everything blew up in his face a few days ago.

“Breathe, Stevie. Come on, in and out, match me.” Bucky says lowly, leant over Steve close enough that he can hear his friend breathing, feel the carefully measured rise and fall of his chest the way he used to. Bucky’s still patting his back, the slow, familiar rhythm reminding Steve of years ago, before any of this, when it was just the pair of them and the rattle and wheeze of Steves failing lungs. Steve stops coughing up water after a few minutes, feels his lungs clear in a way he’d almost stopped appreciating, and just takes deep breaths.

He doesn’t move from where Bucky’s positioned him, on his side even though his ribs ache and he’s lying on one of gun shot wounds, the angle meaning he can feel the where the bullet’s pressing against his muscles and tissue; just lays there and breathes and hopes Bucky doesn’t stand up and walk away.

He doesn’t, just rubs a soothing hand up and down Steves back, and keeps saying, over and over again, like he can’t stop, like he doesn’t know how to say anything else,

“Just breathe.”