Lately I’ve been spending a good part of nearly every day thinking about love. Romantic love. The kind of love that involves french kissing and mix tapes and spooning in New York City in the summer when it’s by most people’s standards too disgustingly humid to spoon. The kind of love you wanna bring home to your grandma and say, “Grandma, look at this love! Just look at this LOVE!” Lately I’ve been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and who I need to become to become the kind of love I want to be…….and when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this: Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.

Andrea Gibson

Coney Island photographed in the 1940s (x) (x) (x) (x) (x)

(via vintagegal)

You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known- and even that is an understatement.

F. Scott Fitzgerald
Title: Fader Artist: The Temper Trap 82 plays

Bless this mess, we tried our best, that’s all that we can do…

Someone whose smallest movements amaze me: her hair falling over her eyes, the soft swell of her hips when she lies down, a deep sigh when she sleeps.

Someone who maps every ticklish part of my body and then uses her knowledge strictly for evil.

Someone who paints our bodies black and makes love with me under the stars.

Someone who burns through my chest like that first shot of scotch.

Someone whose tongue, if we’re kept apart too long, would nervously trace my face into the roof of her mouth.

Andy Weaver, A Little Love Poem

fewthistle:

Caught Up in You. 1920s.

Photographer: Unknown