the stories i tell myself– though elegantly crafted, are not true.
the stories i tell myself– though elegantly crafted, are not true.
even the shadow of your love is the brightest place I’ve ever been.
sometimes myself i find, playing a waiting game, dictated by you.
My 16 year old cat died this past Saturday night. She was declining– and clearly ready to depart. I knew Thursday when she stopped eating and spent all day in the backyard under a tree that she was clear in her decision to go. I told both of my kids when they arrived home from school that …
I never read the rules for mothering it seems I was absent that day– perhaps all of us were. Carrying around the textbook burden of guilt, the weight of which mocks our shortcomings and reveals the all-too constant truth that we’re just winging it. Each new day, another brave face– scooping up the pieces …
the truest romance born of spit and grass stains mirrored feet and an ease that exudes timelessness and whispers of the infinite. languid days of smiles and symmetry harmonious melody grounded in familiarity– like the comfort of an old pair of jeans, softened and worn in the perfect places– a childhood photo, fuzzy at the …
sometimes i think it might be easier if you used a few more words.
i love how tightly you hold onto me at night– (as if i would leave.)
the volumes that you communicate without re- sponding: infinite.
i love you most for your belief in magical beauty abounding.
the edges of myself 