Icon by @ThatSpookyAgent. Call me Tir or Julian. 37. He/They. Queer. Twitter: @tirlaeyn. ao3: tirlaeyn. 18+ Only. Star Trek. The X-Files. Sandman. IwtV. OMFD. Definitionless in this Strict Atmosphere.
won’t you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay, my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.
post by tumblr user @diver-up // mary oliver, the kitten // tweet by vincent d’onofrio // post by tumblr user @iicaru // rainbow connection, the muppet movie (thank you @persimmongal)
the past is a poor broken basket, woven by hands that had no muscle, no song. When you forget me, every word we spoke together just before or after slow first light, lips still wet, – doe, heron, stone, prayer – erases itself from every language, as if never spoken. Extinct.
When you forget me, dream of other women, offer them the dance of your heart, recline in a meadow, drink red wine, seek another woman’s blush, what basket could hold all this desire? I’ll gather black maidenhair fern stems, redbud, bear grass from our sacred places; I’ll harvest, split and dry each piece. My busy hands won’t miss the obsidian outline of your face.
When you forget me, that river where we first kissed won’t stop flowing down from mountains older than desire; when you forget me, the forest that cradled our creation won’t burn down. Some things last. I’ll remember what they are, one by one, as I dye my bundles, start the coil, fit weft around stave. I’ll remember how to make a life out of fragments, how to splice so skillfully, no visible break remains.
Hey if you like my fics, maybe you would like my poetry? *hint hint puppy eyes* It’s not all about the pandemic. It’s just poetry written during the pandemic.
when the coffee kicked in and you cut carrots into coins
for our salad, the satisfying, slow knocking of the dull knife against the cutting board while I pretended to read while I worshipped you
from the sofa
The point of officially naming a pet is not to actually use that name but to have a baseline from which to come up with every conceivable nickname to call them instead.
You bury a seed not because it looks nice in the dirt, but because the limbs that branch out will look nice in the sky
Congrats on contributing to the ancient tumblr tradition of turning shitposts into profound poetry
