"Every kiss provokes another. Ah, in those earliest days of love how naturally the kisses spring into life. How closely, in their abundance, are they pressed one against another; until lovers would find it as hard to count the kisses exchanged in an hour, as to count the flowers in a meadow in May."
Swann’s Way, Marcel Proust

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"Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat."
—Robert Frost

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tide charts

the ocean confuses me now,
for it is all dark lines of waves upon the sand,
each fresh line an archaic and lost language to me.
you were a shell I held to myself,
that whispered me the secrets of the sea.
Now, you’ve left little besides surf and dulled glass.
Only your breathing lingers on,
in the depths of a conch,
where the song of the tides was sung
until it was replaced with something more profound. 
use your map of the currents to come home to me.
elsewise, could you extinguish the melody of your lungs?
it lives loudly in the quiet of my room. 

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