Clearing those pages plain, I'd make time fall away and distance shorten impossibly, fold upon fold, until the page was no longer a record of our histories but an origami swan.
I know you understand me when I tell you this. I know you understand dead of night. Tell me what lines you’ve read so I know how to imagine you. Tell me who is gone. Tell me if you, like me, always think of going.
“For a certain sort of person, sharing a book can be as intimate and exhilarating as sharing a kiss,” writes Helen Rosner in her moving essay about books, love and…
Sometimes we can’t help but blame the people we need for making us need them. In an essay for the New York Times’s Modern Love column, Rumpus contributor Anna March writes about…