I never write about paradise. About the region between familiar hands and my own, about the person who makes the perilous journ...
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
the boy with the scissors
I warn you, the words may be more malignant than beautiful. It’s a story about a boy and his plant, the seed that took so long to spr...
you & she (part 1)
Her soul is not a color, but a riotous scene from Hamlet, steeped with tragedy and the sound of bliss. She leaves the room like a gong, ec...
the opposite of lost
he won't say it, but I know he wants to. you can see it when we're kissing. or breathing. making the kind of eye contact only...
I see you
I have this month's exhaust accumulating behind my eyelids, a compilation of non-responses, excuses he planted like common roses, a...
"nothing gold can stay" (frost, 1923)
He keeps his fingers close to backspace keys, ready and willing to deplete and delete as necessary. He keeps his fingers close to bac...
oh.
he drops love words like atom bombs, but his journal's never heard your name. he wrote the book on poker faces, dealing out d...
the flames
you do not deserve these words. you are not worth my writings. you are not worth the knuckle cracks and ever-moving arthritis, th...
this
you told me you were a shell to crack, but most eggs break easy; you're more of the titanium type, but I thought I had mo...
unplugged soul
I showed him my blog if he promised never to speak of it again. He said, "I'll never say a word about it. Promise." ...
never break a writer's heart.
Never break a writer's heart. Never break her, never break him, never chip important pieces from their morning-after shoulders. ...
atmospheres.
Broken hearts have atmospheres. Broken hearts have atmospheres with stained stars, with milky ways the color of blood and const...
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