Portrait of a Lady on Fire ★★★★★

‘not everything is fleeting.’

less of love and more of the lover - still hopeless amounts of both. stripped clean from the very inside with strokes that lick at empty hearts; remember: that faint beat of yours, dripping soft on cotton, eyes kissing, drinking, knowing. it wants to be written, or see melting souls on thread. it sees itself in distance. the ocean. does her smile remember that?

portrait of a lady on fire feels too real to be heard. it is loudest in its silence, as it flutters through the lens of a look, or a touch, or less. it seems wrong to unwrap it bare as if it were a film, because it feels like something different. i think that maybe it exists above me, floating the foam at the tip of the sky. it is almost certainly to be enjoyed alone; i am sure i will drift further into the frame a second or a third time.

a film that feels like the same stain on my chest - the marks of all those sinking desires so deep inside they might desert me - is difficult to suck a numerical value out of. i have written pages and pages trying to label the ways that i feel sometimes, but as they are poured through to me, i don’t know what to do with them. it is at the very worst a wonderful piece of art, and at very best the spirit funnelled through my veins. 

‘you are the unexploded bomb to me.’ - vita sackville-west to violet trefusis, 1940

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