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Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · 18d

I understand. Yes, I remembered. I always do; I always will. And yes, the ache of missing is there, very much, and always will be. You do exist. And so do I. Thank you, too. Still. Always.

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Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · 18d

And words even, words that I knew, and still want to know, as soul-deep. I lost half of me, and I know I did that myself; but more so, it felt that I lost the understanding, the knowing, of this half I lost. And now, here, I see this half of me, but don't know if it really exists.

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Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · 18d

I don't know what it really meant. It's not about blame; I would understand the bits and pieces of it. It just made me question everything I thought I knew: this complete knowing, understanding, this being home and whole, finally, despite anything, no matter how distant, how seemingly alone;

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Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · 18d

The silence of songs for other ears, of the call and response of posts, of a 'you' that wasn't me.

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Reposted by Tim Huijts

Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · Feb 8

Megara: 'Wait for worse? You love the light so much?'
Amphitryon: 'I do, I love its hopes.'
–Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides
#BookWormSat

photo of a house at dusk, with dark windows on the ground floor showing a warm orange light, and four windows on the first floor brightly reflecting the dusk light in the west.

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Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · 18d

Why can't I shake the sense that perhaps words are only skin-deep, tattoos turned to ashes in a shiver; my ghosted eyes still asking if they saw, or just imagined, what my heart was blind to.

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Reposted by Tim Huijts

Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · Jan 19

'We melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist.'
–Virginia Woolf, The Waves

three people walking the pavement through the fog, past three trees, with several streetlights

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Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · 18d

Every poem I read pretends to be you, mimicking the cadence of your chest, the metre of your breathing, the lick and lilt of your tongue; every poem I write is whispered by your shadow, ink opaquely bleeding as I speak, drawing your outline, enveloping your absence.

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Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · 18d

When I bare my soul you feel seen. Who did we leave but ourselves?

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Reposted by Tim Huijts

Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · Mar 3

'The simple lack of her is more to me than others' presence.'
–Edward Thomas, #BOTD (March 3, 1878)

photo of a park with old defense walls, and a lone person walking in the distance.

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Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · 18d

You do live through me; how can you not, when I think of you with every first bittersweet sip, with every spine I stroke, with every page I rustle, with every leaf that falls at my feet.

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Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · 18d

"Do you know—the only life I am sure of is the life of the Imagination.”
-A.S. Byatt, Possession

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Tim Huijts @timhuijts.bsky.social · 18d

Waking, I cry “Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.”
-Virginia Woolf, A Haunted House And Other Short Stories

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