marcoereus:

I’m so tired of people telling me German is an “ugly, angry” language. When my German teacher tells us jokes it’s the sweetest, happiest language in the world. When I teach my father the word for daughter he smiles, repeating “Tochter” to himself until he gets it right, and in that moment German sounds like pride. There’s nothing angry or ugly about a language that never says goodbye, only “until we meet again.”

(Source: alis-volat-propris)

Every time I see a shooting star, I wish for you.

ohsoromanov:

St. Petersburg From Above

Recently, photographer Amos Chapple spent some time in Saint Petersburg, Russia’s second-largest city. He used a small drone to lift his camera high above the cathedrals and fortresses, capturing some amazing aerial photos. Chapple: “There’s a legend in Russia that Saint Petersburg was constructed in the blue heavens and lowered in one piece into the marshland, ‘for how otherwise could a city so beautiful exist in a region so bleak.’” Chapple, has previously showed us Stalin’s Rope Roads, and took us on a trip to Turkmenistan.

I have lost and loved and won and cried myself to the person I am today.
They were smiling at each other as if this was the beginning of the world.
citylandscapes:

Fireworks over Neva river. Saint-Petersburg, Russia. Source: vaganov.org

citylandscapes:

Fireworks over Neva river. Saint-Petersburg, Russia. Source: vaganov.org

I am in love with a boy who doesn’t write.
When I die, I’ll be nothing.
I won’t reincarnate into books.
My name is not a metaphor.
I will rot and decay underneath this earth.
You won’t hear from me again.
This is because I didn’t love a writer.
But last night, he wrote a novel on my spine;
licked my fingers one by one
like how you try to wet it with your saliva
to make flipping pages easy.
I have never seen him frown
in front of a type writer but I hear his every sigh
everytime I say ‘goodnight, it’s time to go’.
He doesn’t read my poems.
My words are nothing special.
But my mouth is. My tongue
is so much more, according to him.
He sniffs my nape from behind and says
it smells like Friday nights freedom.
I don’t know how to call this.
This thing we have is so addictive and god knows
I’m so glad there’s no rehab for it.
I am in love with a boy who doesn’t write.
One poem is too long for him,
too deep or shallow, too sad, too cruel.
Nothing is in between.
He’d rather hear me recite my moans while we fuck.
He doesn’t read my writings but he can tell
what’s on my mind on the way I look.
On the way I stay silent or even on the way
I chew my food.
He knows everything about me
and my sadness is no secret to him.
When i cry, he leads me to the shower.
He cradles me on his lap when I’m feeling sleepy.
I don’t mind my body.
He looks at me like proofreading an old manuscript.
He looks at me and it hurts.
It hurts so good, I cannot imagine life
without this kind of ache.
I am in love with a boy who doesn’t write.
He has never written a single poem.
But his hands are with my hands.
His eyes are staring at mine.
His skin, I cannot touch it without apologizing first.
Loving him is not easy.
Loving his was never calm.
But I realized,
maybe not all poems are written on paper.
Perhaps, some of them are engraved on our skin,
whispered on our ears,
and buried on our hearts.