I have read too many books, and my mind is filled with words, and my bones strain under stories that will never come true. I am filled with lives I have not lived. Their quiet possibility, rests in my soul. I have read too many books, and I am filled with a dangerous hope.

I write when the bleeding fragmented night drips shards onto a bright new day. When my chest feels tight and the fingers of time tug on my wrists, my neck, my hair, drowning me in a life all too quiet. When the quiet blooming dusk slices me open, my lungs breathing with the sunset. When…

and here we find ourselves sunshine dregged days and warm cotton mouthed nights that leave us wide eyed and restless waiting to dissolve

And in the storm, we stayed. Wind in a sail, I steered the course Tendrils of hair the ropes, my lips the ships wheel. North Star, sailors lore, here I was in the brine and busk and frothy, galloping waves And you, rounded belly of the ship, Dependable rudder. Strong, straight and sure the masts…

Fireflies remind me of you their light fading and reforming on damp summer evenings but their dusk stained wings no longer beat bruises into my tender heart for fireflies only come out at night and their light is unconstant

I found you in equations, and I am no mathematician, but there was an elegance in the simple proof of us. I sought to derive your truest meaning. Yet, asymptomatic, we failed to intersect. III. Incongruent, Neither complementary nor supplementary. We were shapes longing to unfold. I found you in equations, but I have words,…

Honeyed sap rising in our skin, mango sweet flesh over rind, everything I had was yours, and you in turn were mine. Late summer plum oozing sickly, at our ripest, we began to die. Sun blushed, wind weathered, over fallen fruit, Mother Nature won’t cry. The quiet earth swallowed our words with salt and grit.…

I will fall in love with the places you have been with the light and the warmth that sings from your skin. With the stories and songs you whisper at night, your hand in mine, vines entwined tight. I will remember your bones, shapes under silk. spheres and prisms soaked with milk. But most of…

there’s a wooden shelf in your room on it, a red accounting book the major you cast off last year when numbers failed you for the first time. “the alchemist” the book you preached and I pretended to love because it meant I was part of an intended future. an empty bottle of the beer,…

six cylinders crashing and kicking against a rusted husk. Sunset-streaked seams and ochre-daubed rims dull in the fading light. the air is warm and the path stretches on.