I never write about paradise. About the region between familiar hands and my own, about the person who makes the perilous journ...
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...
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