Courtney Nichole - Rhode Island - 21 ---
Words are my passion, music is my soul & nature and photography make me whole. Im just trying to find where I belong.
Background Illustrations provided by: http://edison.rutgers.edu/
Reblogged from littleblips  27 notes

I wish I was a photograph
tucked into the corners of your wallet
I wish I was a photograph
you carried like a future in your back pocket
I wish I was that face you show to strangers
when they ask you where you come from
I wish I was that someone that you come from
every time you get there
And when you get there
I wish I was that someone who got phone calls
And postcards saying
Wish you were here By Andrea Gibson (via littleblips)

Reblogged from thinkmewhole  15 notes

That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth.
You can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.
It’s not the best thing I’ve ever written.
I’m still working on my rhythm.
My tongue gets tied sometimes.
My throat gets dry.
My voice starts trembling,
Honestly, the only thing I’ve mastered is how to write a really good ending.
But I’m getting pretty tired of finish lines.

So this morning I bought a needle and a thread and started stitching you a sunrise.
And the seams are tattered and torn because I got the cloth from an old shirt I was wearing the first time the world started tearing me open,
and I’ve been choking for my breath since then.

Have you ever spent a whole year hoping the morning wouldn’t come?
I’ve had a band-aid in one hand and the other a gun.
Something’s been screaming “fire kid!” but something’s still screaming “live!”
So, Baby, write me a bridge away from the storm.

I don’t know the words to the song you were born to sing,
but I know your fingers will bleed when you play the chords
and maybe you’ll need me then like I need you now
when I say that I miss you I mean something more.
I mean I’ve been biding my time till you kiss me again.
I keep poems like secrets and then tell them when I’m tired of hiding who I am.
I am missing you most
in the silence between songs on my favorite record.
Sometimes it takes so long for the music to start.

Is there a shoreline where the seaweed holds the rocks so tight they soften into sand?
Is it too late to say that’s how my heart feels in your hands?
Like you could sift it through an hour glass and pass it off as time
never stood still, and neither did I.
But I will
if you let me.

In your arms I forget what the yarn knows of sweaters.
I forget how to hold myself together .
So if I unfold now like a love letter tell me you’ll write back soon.
Tell me you’ll still come untethered.

I saw the moon last night for the first time in months.
She reminded me of you, slouching, stubborn in the light.
I’d fight battles with the sun to rest against you tonight.
To feel feel your breath on my pillow,
those song birds outside your window are dropping feathers like I dropped words.
I’m cold from all that came out wrong.
I sleep alone now.

Even when I don’t,
I sleep backbone to floorboard because they’re softer than regret.
Don’t let me go,
don’t let me go yet.
I traced your silhouette on the skyline.
Your crooked spine bent meadows into mountains.
I climbed to watch the sunset.
The sky never looked so gorgeous.
All those falling stars, so sick and tired of being famous.
That man next door with his old violin.
I swore his song
could save us.

By "Yarn" - Andrea Gibson (via thinkmewhole)

reasonsforforgettingtobreathe:

Maybe I Need You by Andrea Gibson

The winter I told you I think icicles are magic

you stole an enormous icicle from a neighbor’s shingle

and gave it to me as a gift.

I kept it in my freezer for seven months 

until the day I hurt my foot

and needed something to reduce the swelling.

Love isn’t always magic

sometimes it’s just melting

or it’s black and blue

where it hurts the most.

Last night I saw your ghost

pedaling a bicycle with a basket

towards a moon as full as my heavy head

and I wanted nothing more than to be sitting in that basket

like ET with my glowing heart glowing right through my chest 

and my glowing finger pointing in the direction of our home.

Two years ago I said I never want to write our break up poem.

You built me a time capsule full of big league chew 

and promised to never burst my bubble.

I loved you from our first date at the batting cages 

when I missed 23 balls in a row 

and you looked at me 

like I was a home run in the ninth inning of the world series 

now every time I hear the word love I think going going…

The first week you were gone 

I kept seeing your hand wave goodbye 

like a windshield wiper in a flooding car

and the last real moment I believed the hurricane would let me out alive.

Yesterday I carved your name into the surface of an ice cube

then held it against my heart till it melted into my aching pores.

Today I cried so hard the neighbors knocked on my door

and asked if I wanted to borrow some sugar

I told them I left my sweet tooth in your belly button.

Love isn’t always magic.

But if I offered my life to the magician

if I told her to cut me in half

so tonight I could come to you whole

and ask for you back

would you listen

for this dark alley love song

for the winter we heated our home from the steam off our own bodies?

I wrote too many poems in a language I did not yet know how to speak.

But I know now it doesn’t matter how well I say grace 

if I am sitting at a table where I am offering no bread to eat.

So this is my wheat field

you can have every acre love

this is my garden song

this is my fist fight

with that bitter frost.

Tonight I begged another stage light to become that back alley street lamp that we danced beneath

the night your warm mouth fell on my timid cheek

as I sang maybe I need you

off key

but in tune.

Maybe I need you the way that big moon needs that open sea.

Maybe I didn’t even know I was here till I saw you holding me.

Give me one room to come home to.

Give me the palm of your hand.

Every strand of my hair is a kite string

and I have been blue in the face with your sky

crying a flood over Iowa so you mother can wake to Venice.

Lover I smashed my glass slipper to build a stained glass window for every wall inside my chest.

Now my heart is a pressed flower and a tattered bible.

It is the one verse you can trust

so I’m putting all of my words in the collection plate

I am setting the table with bread and grace

my knees are bent

like the corner of a page.

I am saving your place.

I want you because there aren’t any good words for who you are. The only ones that come to mind are earnest, sad clichés like “amazing” and “magnetic” and “fascinating” and I don’t want to use them, but on the other hand they are the only words, and cliché or not they are honest words and I’m not sure consulting a thesaurus at this point would be genuine. And it’s not that I want you officially, like I want your last name or your Sunday mornings or your hard shiny promise, I just want to absorb you. I want to know what you know, want to hear your stories, want to filter through them gently and get lost in them, them and the soft hypnosis of your hands in my hair. By Mila Jaroniec, I Want You Because (via spirit-inflight)

I have unrolled a map
onto my kitchen table
and put one finger
where you are and
another where I am.

The space between
is only inches. That close,
I could feel you breathing.
I could reach out and
run my fingers through
every strand of your hair,
touch your lips and
barely need to move.

In the corner of the map
there is a guide for judging scale:
every inch a hundred miles
full of roads and rivers and trees,
the guide a sharp reminder
that you are where you are
and I am where I am,
inches apart. By Gabriel Gadfly, “Why I Hate Reading Maps” (via fleurishes)