She holds her hair up with only two chopsticks and a bobby pin.
Think Atlas. Think shoulders.
When your sadness starts to feast,
she carries the light down from the
mountain and hands it to you,
tells you to set it on fire.
Think Prometheus. Think savior.
On Sunday, she steps out of the shower and you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than the way she walks towards you with a towel on her head, water clinging to her like there is
nowhere else it would rather be.
Think Aphrodite. Think sea foam.
Three o’clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can’t sleep, I am so happy.Anton Chekhov, About Love and Other Stories (via liquidlightandrunningtrees)