What To Do With All This Love

I know I haven't posted in forever, but that's cause it seems like I have run out of words. I'm still taking a lot of pictures though!! and you can follow my adventures on my instagram. I'll post here again eventually :)

At the end of that eternal summer, I found myself back where everything began: lying on the wooden pew, staring out the window at that violaceous pink streaking the palm tree laden skies. There in the darkening cathedral, I was reminded of the poetry of your hipbone, slipping into the hollows between your ribs, my lips against your skin in silent prayer. Some things were easier to worship – though I didn’t know it back then. 

“Addiction is tricky. For example: a man who quit smoking for 11 years spent 15 seconds in an elevator with a man smoking a cigarette. He gave in. What I’m trying to say is, I think I love you again.”

West Coast

I spent most of August wandering along the coast of California, when everything was bone dry and hazy dust filling imaginary cracks in my skin. Still, it was better than lying on the bedroom floor watching clouds and wondering if boredom (or heartbreak) could make your heart stop beating.

XOXO

make up / katie hughes 
model / lauren roth
model / agne ribikauskaite
styling / lindsey isaacs 

Chinadoll

"Hello, hello. C-can you hear me? I can be your china doll, if you wanna to see me fall. 

Boy you're so dope, your love is deadly, tell me life is beautiful, they all think I have it all. 

I've nothing without you, all my dreams and all the lights mean, nothing without you."

A Forgotten Journey

Tonight I want to be with you in Guangzhou, hanging off the edge of the balcony of our motel room, smokin’ tokin’ jokin’, blackening our lungs with every inhale and drinking Tieguanyin with Marlboro Reds dangling from our chapped lips. Overhead the moon is full and ripe, like apricots in the summer, while down in the streets, the steady murmur of the crowd is drowned out by the smell of stir fry wafting from the kitchen window, occasionally interrupted by the clink of chopsticks on delicate china. I’m absentmindedly picking at mosquito bites on my legs, only half-listening to the radio, playing a staticky mix of K-pop and Amy Winehouse. 

Earlier that day I bought a lucky rabbit’s foot from the toothless grandma around the corner and I’m wondering if that means things will change from now on. Maybe I’ll stop being so sad all the time and you’ll remember to eat on Saturday afternoons and we’ll forget what it feels like to be lonely. July always did seem like the longest month of the year. Eventually, we fall asleep under the hazy red night sky and when we wake up at noon tomorrow, we’ll do it all over again.

Art Is Casual Lovemaking

I stopped dreaming again in late May, when the square root of two was closer to a whole number and breathing started to matter less. Everytime I blink an hour passes by, and suddenly, I’m staring at teabags littering the desk along with half-developed polaroids and hastily scribbled goodbye notes, stuck between morning eggs. You wear Sativa like it’s your favorite perfume and it reminds me of rainy days and warm, hazy evenings underneath the rumble of the El, the scent of coffee dregs caught in your collarbones. 

I keep thinking about the end of summer and when did you fall in love with me anyways?

Young & Beautiful

Saudade

It was easy to forget the passage of time in Chacahua, especially on evenings when we would lie side-by-side in the dingy boat to contemplate the tragedy of stars, rocking back and forth every time a crocodile swam by, its sinuous tail trailing bioluminescent lights along the wake. Above us, the universe unravels slowly, tendrils of stardust spreading across the sky as I scribble Spanish poetry into your skin, the ink staining in fractal patterns along the wings of your back.

At some point, between the mutterings of giant bullfrogs and chirping insects, I felt (more so than heard) your breathing quiet and slow, leaving me a bit more lost and alone, despite the steady warmth radiating out from underneath your sleepy skin. I blink up at Ursa Major, quietly trying to stop myself from imagining a life after Mexico, and fail. You wake up without a word, eyes still closed, and hold my trembling hands tightly against your own, not letting me slip through the cracks and spaces between your fingers.

"Just until the cuervos stop singing", you promise, even as you leave bruises against my wrist (scattered like constellations). In the early morning light, I find your marks embedded deeply into my skin, and my secret hope is that they will never fade.