Hope.

"Life is short so we resort to laughing at it all." ☯†☮

I will never forget you. Your nakedness
haunts me in the dawn when I can not distinguish your
flushed brown skin from the burning horizon, or my hands.
The smell of chaos lingers in the clothes
you left behind. I hold you
there.

Joy Harjo, section 9 of “Songs from the House of Death, or How to Make It Through to the End of a Relationship,” The American Poetry Review (vol. 28, no. 3, May/June 1999)

(Source: apoetreflects, via belleetelle)

We weren’t born to live
long among the cracked
homes and crack
houses of the real.
The basketball court
fault lines smoke
with dandelion clocks,
something volcanic
in this city’s decay.
Car alarms sing
across widowed lots,
and in rushes the sea.
Baby, be good to me.

—Amit Majmudar, “Love Song for Doomed Youth,” published in The Paris-American (via bostonpoetryslam)

(via belleetelle)