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(via sintire)

The Drinker’s Guide to Unloving a Previous Lover

writingsforwinter:

Sometimes at night, alone in the kitchen, I practice tracing my steps

to the wine cellar, only to turn around

as soon as I catch the slightest hint of vodka.

Alcoholics call this recovery.

I call it learning how to unlove.

Not a day goes by where I don’t set a match to the edge of my bed

until smoke begins to curl up toward the ceiling like a ghost,

long enough for the smell of flames

to drown out the feeling of drinking to forget.

Years ago, a homeless man once read my palm lines and predicted

that one day someone would touch me

with the same certainty geese fly south in the fall.

What he couldn’t predict is that you would touch me

until my feathers ended up in a pile on the floorboards

and my sense of direction was nowhere to be found.

Sometimes at night, alone in the kitchen, I remember the first time we kissed

and how I’ve never felt completely sober since.

(via writingsforwinter)

blackcatandme:

I stood naked over him and took a picture

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Bob Dylan photographed by John Cohen in New York, 1962.

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