writers
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The tilt of you, the fractures where the light slips in. I trace your doubts like constellations. Your mistakes beg for reverence, a desperate proof of life. I shaped you into a vision without weight, perfection hollowing all meaning until I warped your memory just to survive. There is no hesitation in standing bare, skin
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I once lived in the warmth of brown eyes, Believing they held all the light I needed. A gaze that wrapped my world in quiet surrender, Whispering promises, bending reason. But in a single moment, the color shifted, And what I knew unraveled into blue. Brown dissolved into a distant echo, While blue became the
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I used to think that love could make time stop, but he taught me time is irrelevant. He could infuriate me like no one else, and I don’t think I’ve ever been more exasperated with someone. I could never bring myself to intentionally hurt him. Yet, the fear of missing out on something so painfully
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One of my favorite quotes comes from a letter John Steinbeck wrote to his hopelessly romantic son. In it, he reminds him that love is real if he believes it to be so and encourages him to embrace it without fear. Steinbeck speaks tenderly about the many forms love can take, from selfish and cruel
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When I turn away he finds me A hand to my jaw a look I can’t outrun He doesn’t move like he’s thinking he moves like breath like instinct like the step between desire and permission We don’t speak in answers we speak in breath in steps in touches that say stay And eyes that
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In the search for love, perhaps all a soul truly needs is to be present in Manhattan. Falling in love with New York City is a perilous affair, for it is not merely the city itself that captivates us, but rather the person we aspire to become, leaving behind the mediocrity of our past. When
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2 of 3 Do not ask me for advice, I am without my love. Do not ask me how I live without. Ask me about the weather. For he is the beautiful storm, the cloud over my head, and why I pray for rain. It is a troubled feeling, longing for someone. Losing them in
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My mind is miles before me and I feel so out of body. Repetitive in my actions obsessing over a routine that does not seem to fit. Chasing myself weighed down by my breath, the words that live on my lips refuse to be a part of written truth. Anxiety whispers to me, to believe
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I’ve been avoiding writing more than a poem. I can express more with a metaphor in print than I could ever say in my own words. So, here I am saying more than a few lines to get by; and damn my life has changed. Last fall I went through a lot. I was dealing with the in-between.
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I live with a writers anxiety where the words that reside in my head obsess over print. Anxiety so strong that my thoughts have formed into a narration. I recite lines in my head ignoring our current conversation. “Wait, what did you say?” “Please, can you repeat that?” Nervous laughter as my only contribution. Incessantly,
Wishful Thinking 