Live all you can: it’s a mistake not to. It doesn’t matter what you do in particular, so long as you have had your life. If you haven’t had that, what have you had?
She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there, leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.
In the winter of 2011, photographer and furniture designer Ana Kraš flew from her home in Belgrade, Serbia, to Los Angeles, where she’d been sent by a European magazine to photograph artist-musician Devendra Banhart. Within five minutes, he asked her to marry him. Despite her initial impulse to flee, she stayed—and the two have been together ever since.
"What are you thinking about?"
"I come here to not think."
(Ho Chi Minh City / Saigon, Vietnam)
I spent my summer wrapped up in tiny arms,
Just big enough to reach around my waist,
Eyes that rise up to meet mine,
The perfect sunrise.
Lost in a sea of handwritten notes,
The scrawl “I love you” rubs off onto my skin,
A visible tattoo that remains long after the crayon fades.
The first time your body finds mine,
You lay your head in my lap as if you’d done it a million times before.
Running my fingers through your hair,
It reminds me of wheat fields,
Lazy summer days that I can’t quite place in this lifetime.
You feel like another lifetime,
Where I am always barefoot,
Running against a wind that smells of pine needles and sap that sticks to just the tips of my fingers.
Each day with you,
I’m eyes wide open,
Palms up to meet your rough hands.
And that’s all that is rough about you.
With your head-back,
And unconventional love for mystical dragons,
Anything and everything orange,
I am over my head.
Because you want to be home by 7 to make dinner in your white picket fence,
Small town home that smells like cinnamon sticks,
Where your children write love letters in crayon taped to the fridge.
I wonder if you can see my crayon tattoos when your phalanges fumble against mine
Because they found a way to etch themselves into me when I swore,
They never would.
And somehow, so have you.
So for now, I’ll run my fingers through that golden hair,
Until one morning,
You turn over,
Nuzzle your face into my short, unkempt hair,
Breathe in the scent of last night’s cigarettes,
Untangle your hand from my chipped black nails,
Take in my worry lines one last time
And for the first time,
Let your heart exit my bed with your body.
And when you head out into the morning air,
It might just smell like cinnamon sticks.
You are a volume in the divine book.
A mirror to the power that created the universe.
Whatever you want, ask it of yourself.
Whatever you’re looking for can only be found
Inside of you.