“Feed me punctured pears, bruised figs, and bleeding pomegranate- the kind that have fallen from the groves; the kind that are most ripe. Waking up at a quiet hour ; sharing a moment with a swaying palm. The fragile wings of a bee, found in a jar of honey. The vowels in the word ‘poetry.’  I am the moon pursuing the sun. The paradox of perfection is that it’s imperfection and if that isn’t beautiful, I don’t know what is.”

-The Linguist



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s