hafsa, nineteen, england. find my other tumblr here.

semi hiatus

nyctaeus:

Mathieu Tremblin, ‘Parking tickets bouquet’ (2013)

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hafsaatique:

it’s the same old story these days,
tracing circles round mouths
of empty coke cans, chewing until
everything tastes like rust.
you know you’re worth more than this
longing, heat rising from your skin like
you’re an august evening, simmering
uneasy and too close to sunset. you’re lying
outstretched on open roads, thinking
maybe it’s not your fault you want
to call him home, thinking maybe
this is how love reduces us:
when we’re lonely and burning,
and with everything we ever wanted.

- “the august love”, hafsa atique

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teenagelobatomy:

mármol

por Juan Pablo Tavera

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hafsaatique:

you know there’s something wrong
with this picture, like the dream we shared
with the eyes blacked out and our song calling
like sunset in the distance, almost
as though it were sorry, almost as though
it were breaking too. there’s nothing
tender here, only your hands
spread in surrender. you say you’re
tired of all of this, say it’s not
our fault, say this could be a
dream, if we wanted it to be.
you’re searching for words like a
wild horse running blind, trying
to find a way back to that desperate
body we called home, trying
to remember if it was breathing
to begin with, or whether we wished
that, and so much else, too.

"in place of an ending’, hafsa atique

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"   Maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. She was standing in the sun scratching her legs. Or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick. Her hair was being pulled. Or she was pulling someone’s hair. And a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted—wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don’t look at me. If you don’t, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me.   "
Nicole Krauss, The History of Love (via quotes-shape-us)
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