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.
acknowledge what it is that is truly sacred in a ritual.
insecurities are rooted in a place that rarely sees the light.
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 …
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.
timelessness emerges existing next to you. a span of hours, days– one tender moment folded into lifetimes spent chasing shadows and resurrecting structures. mapping this careful framework entrusted to none but ourselves. the understated pageantry of a life unfolding small moments witnessed– all access granted to the one whose willingness to engage is unsurpassed. …
the edges of myself 