Gwen Calvo Famous Quotes
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The Sun moves. And I am with you.
the beauty is in the guts.
The only thing I know about me is that it is you.
I confess to the trees, priests of dreams.
The fog between the trees of ghosts who lift suns.
Dreams, the veins of the universe.
She has survived but she doesnt know what.
Tongues paired in the forest.
In the distance, a Benz motor sounds. A neon light wraps itself around the driver and the winter that beats in his heart. His heart stays cold. stays melting.
he hates skiing but he loves the mountains and like that with everything.
He breaks her waves on all his edges.
Music repairs us when it breaks the silence.
Your lips, an inverse chaos of stars.
she is everywhere in the sky. she is fearless, she is focused. free.
Everything is blood and vines. The mark of another day of revolving the body exact And the sky is ours our hope our blue our silence our throat of burning wildflowers.
The edge of the sea masks a clock that marks the waves.
In the forest, I like you like that without anesthesia.
He keeps her name on his hands, her body in his throat.
He loves her for a reason and its not rational
Writers talk to ghosts.
She is his word his love she brings the blood back to his lips.
Write, burst into a dream.
Her echo is the only reality in his silence.
The hands understand the language of dreams.
I hold you in my mouth, in the words that contain you, in the unsaid and the haunts, in all the forms your name.
Finding yourself with your loves gives blood to existence, looking at one another seeing the universe.
Undress its cold. And with a kiss accentuate the scars.
He turns her over and writes.
if you want to heal a wound you have to stop touching it.
He holds her in this moment and the world disappears.
You taste of the sea, of clocks, dark nights, of everything that is soothing and prohibited. Of dawn in the eyes, falling snow and destiny.
the wildflowers said what burial.
Loving you is kissing the night, exposing the scars, words in flames, for every drop and for every life.
the first wound carried your name, the second drowned with mine.
Being words, being lips that bleed.
he is her home, a cemetery of poems.
Face in the Sun with the dark circles of beautiful nights the mouths of tigers.
He falls in love because he doesnt want to.
all of that forest in your eyes.
He feels the word close enough to absorb it;
an exorcised silence creating cliffsides to escape to and reverse.
Capturing moments with a net of red butterflies.
Writing is taking the demons out for a walk.
I write scars and dead butterflies.
