- we never stop when we say we will, which reminds me of that Frank O’Hara poem—you never come when you say you’ll come but on the other hand you do come.
- still alive, still reaching for each other. as though we hadn’t crossed planets in the course of a night. as though we hadn’t swam miles through some dark and velvet ocean.
- the light’s always been weak in the rooms you chose to live in. as long as I’ve known you, anyway. not too long. sliver of time before dawn, everything blue, pale and unreal, my whole body feeling washed and emptied. your hand over my mouth, and. and.
- when you’re a masochist, it’s easy to confuse the things you want with the things you take to get the things you’re wanting.
- now the days are getting even shorter and I haven’t cried at all which feels promising.
- each morning I consider this alchemy, the thing that makes me feel sane or not sane—it’s so small, the things that tilt me on either end. a bird, a text message, being unable to find a sweater.
- memory isn’t linear, it’s a door that opens beside you when you’re not looking, because you’ve felt this cool envelope of air on your skin before—maybe, if you write about something all the time, like I do, it calcifies, and you get the fossil in the layers of language you’ve used to tell the story.
some excerpts from the new intimacies, by larissa pham