Attracted to sweet honeysuckle breath, they cling to the fibers of your shirt and make way up to your nose.  Their light slices the night air and innocence (halfway naivety) protrudes from your fingers when you place it gently down to the damp rain-soaked earth.  (A more immense being would put out the light).  The heavy summer air is grounds for possession of empty heads laying on lush grass, pointing out constellations in the dark (heavy-feeling) sky to your own heart. 

You let out a whisper to your ownself, with a sliver of knowledge: “We’re all just fireflies to the stars in our sky.”

herswansong:

VALUSKA: from the love letters of Zelda Fitzgerald, Part IV — Since you are…

valuska:

from the love letters of Zelda Fitzgerald, Part IV

— Since you are slowly dissolving into a mythical figure over the long period of years that have elapsed since two weeks ago, I will tell you about myself: I am lonesome… Life is difficult. There are so many problems. 1. The problem of how to stay here and 2. the problem of how to get out.
— Pavements crackle under the crystalline mornings. Every day I expect the front page of the papers to burst into flames…
— I trust that life will not continue forever in the heaping of ashes.
— You were a young lieutenant and I was a fragrant phantom, wasn’t I? And it was a radiant night, a night of soft conspiracy and the trees agreed that it was all going to be for the best. Remember the faded gray romance.
— A suitcase full of happiness and a hat-box of souvenirs.
— Gusts of bottled breezes.
— Here are some titles [for her stories] — Maybe you can paste them on the unidentifiable bottles in the medicine cabinet if they don’t seem to apply. 1. Even Tenor. 2. Rainy Sunday. 3. How It Was. 4. Ways It Was.
— Pale blue crowds watched the rhododendron parade today. Under an impervious Italianate sky the blaring of the bands poured forth from the hills.
— And the afternoon sun imbedding itself in a silver tea-pot.
— The sense of sadness and of finality in leaving a place is a good emotion; I love that the story can’t be changed again and one more place is haunted — old sorrows and a half-forgotten happiness are stored where they can be recaptured. *
— Snow domesticates horizons; the world is a fine white boudoir; the world is cared-for and expensive. I hope always that you’ll show up in it soon.
— One could perform experiments in how to live.
— She wore white gardenias… and white hopes.
— The winter has grown homesick for something else, somewhere else — and seems as anxious to get away as everybody else is.
— When you leave I always look about me and catalogue your visits.
— I think the Elements resent us, and I think that They Themselves are none too well-disciplined. Any old thing ought to have better sense than to freeze people.
— The eternal hope on which life is hung.
— Woods sweet with violets and the secrets of 1900.
— Meantime: I’m painting lampshades, instead of souls; just for a little while, and meantime I play the radio and moon about considerably and dream of Utopias where it’s always July the 24th 1935. That’s my chosen happiest equipment: to be 35, in the middle of summer forever.
— What is there to say? You know how much I have loved you.

* snowglobe syndrome.

We were one
with fragile hearts
And ocean-wave
beings
Back and forth between
Bits
of salt in the
sea.

Tucking flowers
into the
spaces of your
fingers,
(let me blow them away).

I’ll fill the spaces
with memories
tucked away in
the back of your
brain.