44caliber.net

i know that someday you'll be sleeping, darling, likely dreaming off the pain

i hope you'll hear me in the streetlight's humming, softly breathing out your name

i know that even with the seams stitched tightly, darling, scars will remain

i say we scrape them from each other, darling
and let them wash off in the rain

and when they run into the river, oh no
let the water not complain

i swear that even with the distance, slowly
wearing out your name

your hands still catch the light the right way, and our hearts still beat the same

and our hearts still beat the same

Sorry for slow updates and lack of content T^T I have tons of ideas that I plan to add to this website soooon


Welcome to 44caliber.net, a struggling project due to
perfectionism and the need to conform
web counter
if viewing on mobile, use landscape mode. some pages don't load corectly so it's better to view on a computer. zoom out if a page doesn't look right.


and you've cried once more because recognition feels like forgiveness, which is a burning furnace that can't stand on its own. love is a feast but you've learned to abstain. there is a sickness that follows the shame of giving with love only to be met with slaughter.

find me here:
penknifelovelife.tumblr.com
last.fm/user/calosta

Recent Updates:
Nov. 19: a page dedicated to brand new!
Nov. 14: new about page + small
updates to other pages
Nov. 10: fixed centering on several pages


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somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near. your slightest look easily will unclose me, though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as spring opnes (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose. or if your wish be close to me, my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to percieve in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands. the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands