she held the world in her hands. like it was nothing. nothing at all.
she stepped on a feather. and watched it draft above her. the space around her filled with wafts of air. thoughts of feathers and flowers and everything soft about them.
hemingway gets me.
i could spend years in this place | if they would let me | let me settle into a space that i can recognize | like a place i’ve been before | but have never travelled | i think they called it ‘home’
beauty pressed between 2 pages. white pages of paper. torn from the book on the shelf. nevertheless. pressed flat to remember him by.
with arm outstretched | she offered a piece to the world she loved | so much | so much more than she loved any person | the world that held her daily | that gave her all those things she needed | the wind against her arm was more than enough | to keep her happy this time | and the whispy feathers of that | ‘weed’ | (though she didn’t believe in the word) | flowed like her hair when she was little | swinging back and forth | constant pushes from her dad | and she felt like she could fly | that must be how that piece of nature felt.
they laid in wait | for the inevitable to come | the fall of the hills | the mountains | the snow | but in the end it was all worth it | worth every moment of beauty they could gain from here | from the perspective of knowing | they were smaller than they originally imagined.
to float away | on the hopes of a land faraway | and the morals of those who came before you
— F. Scott Fitzgerald (via coello)
her legs | they were what kept her going | and they were what drew his eyes down | as though the rest of her disappeared.
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