The final sighs of an exhausted heart. It’s a slow death, a toxic buildup of all that was unspoken, unwritten, unadmitted, repeated in a restless mind that sometimes likes to follow the rules. Those sheets of paper, that pen, traveled endlessly and waited for place and purpose to explode in black and white. It was… Continue reading Block
Your laugh has the cadence of forgiveness, so we pick up its rhythm where we left off with banter and mirth and the kind of idiosyncrasies that clapped like toy cymbals over and over, a touch point pulse while heat built beneath our feet. In the laughing absolution, one of us steps too far and… Continue reading Music
Tiny black pebbles wedged themselves between my toes while I hung tight to my favorite purple sweater. It’s wrapped itself around me at a few beaches, but none that have made me cry out with waves that crash against rocks like cannon fire. I ran as close to the shore as I could, heeding the… Continue reading Black Pebbles
I’m an old soul because when I hear the crashing of waves against rocky shores I don’t think of the percussive rhythms of the place I’m at but travel from this coast to Santorini, to Okinawa, to Naples, to Brindisi. I see octopi strung up on sailboats with the backdrop of whitewashed buildings. I see… Continue reading Old Soul
You sat next to me on loud yellow vinyl. I remember the way it sounded when you moved in closer because I couldn’t hear you. I wore a silk floral shirt, and right now I’m not sure why I ever got rid of it. I got rid of a lot of things I wish I… Continue reading Yellow Marine
The only time I've dreamed of flying I was laying next to you wrapped in white sheets. Originally written April 12 2018, in a room with sparkling lights.
The first time I cleaned a freshly dead body, I called you. I was submerged in a hot bath hours after my shift ended, Prosecco from the bottle to my lips, and I told you about the eyelids that crept open and disrupted my feeble attempts at sleep. I told you about the color of… Continue reading Simply
Don't test a Scorpio with your ambiguity. Originally written August 2017, sketched April 2018 in a tap room.
Today I found some six-year-old writing hidden beneath an innocuous document title that spoke truths I’d yet to realize, but that’s not really the point. That’s not the place in my heart that’s aching, although it does ache when I think of her name. The point is in the truth; in speaking it, in all… Continue reading Today
Cello strings and bare feet on a dirty dance floor Hanging up scotch for water, neat in an empty tap room. Originally written February 21 2018, in a crowded tap room.