I suppose that tragedy and pain just have a way of making adults of children sometimes.

If we have not struggled/as hard as we can/at our strongest/how will we sense/the shape of our losses/or know what sustains/us longest or name/what change costs us,/saying how strange/it is that one sector/of the self can step in/for another in trouble,/how loss activates/a latent double, how/we can feed/as upon nectar/upon need?

I was waiting for the longest time, she said. I thought you forgot.

It is hard to forget, I said, when there is such an empty space when you are gone.

The Individual

what caught my eye,
what drew me in
was something of myself
I found in you

it’s a peculiar thing,
similarities in a world
where originality
is key, but never quite
coveted, or ever kept

and so in kind,
what closely resembled
our own fortes and faults,
what somehow softened
our hearts and our minds—
came still to repel
the originality we sought
in life and ourselves


I’ve been told that close-lipped smiles are never good. They’re the mark of something deeper, a hidden secret of possible mischief and mayhem. They’re plotting your demise.

But I’ve also been told that these close-lipped smiles are tells for something else—for protection. A close-lipped smile coupled with perhaps sad or lonesome eyes spells out a different kind of trouble. They’re not quick to reveal themselves, not quick to laugh or reply to your humor in kind. But it’s that innate mystery they have that’ll ensnare you and keep you entranced indefinitely.

That close-lipped smile is the mermaid’s siren song, sailor, and I beg you to fortify yourself for the journey.

Write because you want to communicate with yourself. Write because you want to communicate with someone else. Write because life is weird and tragic and amazing. Write because talking is difficult. Write because it polishes the heart. Write because you can. Write because you can’t. Write because there is a blackbird outside of my window right now and oh my god isn’t that the best start to the day? Write because you’re trying to figure yourself out. Write because you might not ever figure yourself out. Write because there still aren’t enough love poems in the world.

He will one day meet his true love… A fellow traveler on the road… Her eyes will be his ocean… In her ocean he will sail forever…