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@organicharp

she/her | infp | ravenclaw
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organicharp
aconissa
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aconissa

TO BE MADE AND REMADE IN A LOVER’S HANDS

Natalie Diaz, ‘Postcolonial Love Poem’ Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body Rainer Maria Rilke, Book of Hours (trans. Barrows & Macy) Auguste Rodin, Cathedral & Combinations Audre Lorde, ‘On a Night of the Full Moon’ Margaret Atwood, Power Politics James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room
organicharp
goghdreamer
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nostalgicbones

a rainbow of van gogh—

in order: Peach Tree in Bloom (in memory of Mauve), 1888 / Red Poppies and Daisies, 1890 / Willows at Sunset, 1888 / The Sower (Sower with Setting Sun), 1888 / Undergrowth with Two Figures, 1890 / Landscape with Couple Walking and Crescent Moon, 1890 / Branches with Almond Blossom, 1890 / Starry Night Over the Rhone, 1888 / Irises, 1889 / Wheat Field With Cypresses, 1889
organicharp
alwaysdreamingg-deactivated2023

I read somewhere that “When you choose a life partner you're choosing your eating companion for about 20,000 meals, your travel companion for 100 vacations, your retirement friend, career therapist, & someone whose day you'll hear about 18,000 times” and I can’t stress this enough..

organicharp
koerperlich
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koerperlich

Manimekhala Illustration from an album of Thai character drawings from the 19th century The goddess Manimekhala, believed to be the guardian of the seas in Thai Buddhist mythology, is often depicted with a body in bright blue or white colours

organicharp
The figs we ate wrapped in bacon.
The gelato we consumed greedily:
coconut milk, clove, fresh pear.
How we’d dump hot espresso on it
just to watch it melt, licking our spoons
clean. The potatoes fried in duck fat,
the salt we’d suck off our fingers,
the eggs we’d watch get beaten
’til they were a dizzying bright yellow,
how their edges crisped in the pan.
The pink salt blossom of prosciutto
we pulled apart with our hands, melted
on our eager tongues. The green herbs
with goat cheese, the aged brie paired
with a small pot of strawberry jam,
the final sour cherry we kept politely
pushing onto each other’s plate, saying,
No, you. But it’s so good. No, it’s yours. 
How I finally put an end to it, plucked it
from the plate, and stuck it in my mouth.
How good it tasted: so sweet and so tart.
How good it felt: to want something and
pretend you don’t, and to get it anyway.
July by Christin O' Keefe Aptowicz
#july#poem#summer#okeefe