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belle-modelle:

Jemma Baines in Friend The Magazine No. 4 by Bowen Arico

(via running-from--lions)

Corinne Michael West, Abstract Expressionist painter, actress and writer, 1930, photo by Jon Boris 

via valscrapbook

(via missavagardner)

" bell hooks, Communion: The Female Search for Love (via acceptthis)

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(via modellove)

(via zwerflust)

(via zwerflust)

everyone makes love sound like
rocks against the window at two in
the morning, like grand gestures in
front of the classroom, like public displays
of affection and eighty-two rose bouquets
and maybe that is a part of it but

when real love hits you, he will be
spreading hummus across flatbread, sleep
tangling her fingers in his hair, a slight
whispy smile on his lips like he knows
the world’s greatest secret and even though
you’re both standing in the kitchen’s
bad lighting and you’re both still
recovering from napping and you’re
only in your socks and undies,
it will feel like you’re standing next to a jet plane
during take off, it will just knock you right over

when real love hits you, she will be sitting
in front of a bad action movie, eyes on
the screen and legs tangled between yours,
her body fitting so perfectly against you that you
feel like the two of you are puzzle pieces made for
each other, the warmth of her laughter
like whiskey through your veins
and you will realize you have spent the
last five minutes just looking
at her face and maybe the two of you
illegally downloaded this film and maybe her
fingertips are covered with popcorn butter and
maybe you’ll never be able to form a good enough
way to tell her, but just even seeing her happy makes
your heart explode like a snowball against
a windowpane, you’re just completely wrecked by it

when love hits you, they will be absently licking icing
off the back of their knuckle while they make cupcakes
for their whole class and their nose will wrinkle
and you will find an inexplicable humor in how
they literally sprint from the room in order to sneeze
without breathing on the food, you will watch the way
they sneak some batter from the bowl with a hooked
finger, how their left cheek has a little smear
of flour right across where their freckles
rest like clovers and maybe they are
not the best baker in the world but
even if they burn everything they make you,
you realize you wouldn’t care, you would
honestly eat whatever it was for
rest of your life because it means being
close to them and that idea just cracks
against your ribs like how rain always sings as
it falls, so in love with the ground that it
praises the earth as it hits

and this is what love is:
the moments of looking up and finding
you’re with the world’s most perfect person,
so full of flaws and such a terrible, terrific
fit.

" This is silly but he’s home to me.” /// r.i.d
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