I wash my body compulsively 
to remove every cell of your skin
even if it’s been 14 days 
since the last time your fingers
wandered on my body.

I only asked you one thing;
“Don’t leave without an explanation.”

It’s January and unexpectedly hot outside.
I told you I love it when cold air fills up my lungs
and when you last pressed your lips on mine
I felt that kind of air freezing my lungs 
then my heart.
It’s unexpectedly hot outside and my goddamn
heart still shivers at the thought of you.

You promised me one thing;
“I will never leave you just like this.”

Some promises are meant to be 
tangled in between messy sheets,
where the passion and the words
of one forgotten night full of desire

Some promises are meant to be made
during the sleepless nights in the middle
of a small room with red lighting 
during the moment our naked bodies
are pressed together.

You left me
Just like this.
And I got nothing of you
other than the feel of your fingers
in between my thighs.

New York City Skyline in the Snow - From Above

The sun washes

over the snow

in winter

like hot maple syrup

over ice-cream

as buildings


like waffle cones

in the middle

of roads

dusted with


and dreams.

Taken on a bitterly cold afternoon this past week with my Sony A7S and a lot of determination. This is a view looking out over the Flatiron Building and Madison Square Park the day after a light dusting of snow. 

My best-selling New York photography book released in stores/online worldwide recently. Info about the book (including many photos, sample pages, and info about my history and style of photography):

NY Through The Lens: A New York Coffee Table Book

View: My New York City photography portfolio, Cameras and Gear I Use, My Travel Blog, On G+,email me

poem about him

of all the drugs i’ve tried,

you were the hardest.

my world desperately mimicked yours

with patchouli and stardust.

i sang sweet summer wine and

drank your cheap boxed kind;

life was rolling stoned in the middle

of the sea,

pretending not to feel

too much and not enough. 


i plummeted into the ice water while you turned away

in blissful ignorance…

until my hard bleached soul washed to shore. 

i knew i had you no more

than i had my sanity.

but i grew webbed mermaid feet

that grew into legs,

and evolved and stood

and walked far away

as i watched you, rolling stoned, in the rotten water of low tide.


last night,

you muddled my dreams.

and here i am,

sleep - less

at sunrise, struggling to finally

express this


summer daze

you know how to speak. but not why.
this is your final exam. in the middle
of summer. when your neighborhood
is empty. they’ve gone to their cabins
on the small island. you don’t believe
that the small island exists. not really.


I am unsettled.
So much of the world
has yet to be

Does the ocean
smell the same
from the coast
of Costa Rica?

And do the stars
look the same
above Japan?

If I stood in the middle
of a busy market place
in the colorful India,
would it sound like
Union Square
in San Francisco?

I am unsettled
because my view
ends at the horizon,
and I can’t see
beyond my borders.


Originally posted by pleasingpics

Request: @gothamsmermaid - Song fic- “Style” by Taylor Swift.

Notes: This came out a poem inspired by Style, so I hope you don’t mind :). Also, the way this is written was inspired by Ellen Hopkins’s writing format, because i recently started reading her books again and they are absolutely beautiful.

Song: Style - Taylor Swift

Word Count: 300+

Warnings: Implied smut, high school AU.

Young love consisted of dark marks on necks and hearts. 

You were no exception.

You got a bad boy with a killer smile.
You got him picking you up at midnight, no headlights on as it would wake everyone who lived on the street.
You got the chance to crawl out of your window and passionately kiss him as the cool night air washed over both yours and his skin.

Keep reading

Spring Thaw

by Gordon Gilsdorf

Most things
die reluctantly,
to the life
they know,

like snow
trying to hold
the land
far beyond
the middle
of March.

How can it know
that April
will not have
violets without warm rains

and that
is the only way
to inherit
the earth?


September finally packed her bags,

She left in the middle

Of a clear black night,

When the harvest moon

Was shining bright.

She didn’t even say goodbye,

As she left to travel the world

For yet another year,

She may be gone now

But it’s fine: October’s here.

And he is the bringer of mischief,

That playful grin of white,

His cloak made of leaves,

That floats in the wind

As he walks beneath naked trees.

I want someone to believe in me again
the way your make-believe love sent
shivers down my spin in the middle
of August’s heat wave, when the color
red was comforting, and when everyone
saw the woman I stuffed in my sleeves
and hid from the light–I’m still the little
girl I convince myself I’ve grown out of