Okay let me explain you a thing about little inner-city apartments, about little slices of domesticity sewn out of old brick and DIY plaster, filled with rag-tag people that you have assembled as a family unit, with indie music on low and laughter and dwindling bottles of wine. Where the cat is always asleep atop your computer and your best dress and stockings are tossed on the couch and your faulty window opens to a planted box full of herbs and the steamy buzz of the city below. Where take out from your favorite deli awaits you in the fridge and work is only a bus-ride away and the city comes right up the meet you at night, swilling in with the night wind and tugging at your hair and sweater until you venture out into it. There’s something truly magical about a tiny well-kept apartment filled with treasured people, something more exquisite than anything in the world, I think.
Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac
Love this song
Women like me do not fall gracefully,
we stumble over our spines, trip over
our vowels, and collapse into your arms.
Our hearts are open books,
Russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts,
unedited verses about each and every
person we have ever loved: the stranger
on the subway, the girl who gave us a balloon,
the boy who stole our virginity
but not our heart.
Women like me will love you from a distance
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible,
and when we leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people.