Happy valentines day with fem wangxian 🍫❤️

i dont want 22 episode seasons back. i dont want 8 episode seasons. i dont actually want a prescriptive number of episodes per season

its the era of streaming. we dont need to fil x number of timeslots.

i want tv shows to be able to determine for themselves what their optimal number of episodes per season to tell the story they want at the pace they want. maybe thats a 3 episode season. maybe thats a 50 episode season. i dont care, i just want the decision to be made for practical and artistic reasons rather than corporate ones

love this transgender plant individual

I like flowers
yellow turns to gold
pink to a soft quartz
they dance in the wind
I used to cut them from the garden
I like flowers when they sit
quietly in a vase
like a butterfly momentarily
in my palms
I like flowers when they wilt
the petals turning flaccid
as if they were in the middle
of a deep sigh
and every weight is let go
colors turn dull and brown
and suddenly it's Thursday again
I like flowers when they die
shrinking and bowing out
the show must go on, but
they always end
that's when the applause blooms
and even then,
silence, eventually

For silence sits with me like a cold cup of coffee, quiet and honest even in its bitterness. Words by: @sanitysipper

The Anatomy of Almost

We could have been something holy,

if timing had been kinder-

if silence hadn’t sounded

so much like goodbye.

Now your name tastes like dusk,

familiar, fading,

a prayer half-whispered into autumn air.

Sometimes I think the saddest stories

are the ones that never learned to end-

they just dissolve,

leaving echoes where love once lived.

I believed once, too fiercely, too long,

but love has tired me, proved me wrong.

No more chasing whispers in the dark,

no more tending a fading spark.

Perhaps it never wanted me,

or I was too much, or too empty.

I give up softly, without fight —

love is gone, and so is light.

i think of all the ways
the earth could hold me.
grave, garden, ocean bed.
and how every form of rest
begins with giving in.

if i am to bloom again,
let it be here.
half root, half ache.
quietly growing from my own ruin.

— jv orongan
ps. read more of my pieces here.