beneath soft reds, swaying canopies
you drop of light, delusive flame, a sputtering spark
enraptured by the dawn and stolen from the stars

the spaces between my leaves grew thin
and myself, i sought my heart in the mere places you’d been
the touch you’d left, that illusory, hopeful breath

why aren’t you as insubstantial as the breeze that lifts my face unto the morn,
as the promises whispered when thought alone
parting lips around words of home

can you reach higher with the soft greens of stubborn life?
with my breath so light, that internal flame, a spark of laughter
enraptured by the self and stolen from the dusk
(left to wilt, i blossomed, warmth
as much the sun as rain and earth)


i felt it

i felt the night sky
i felt it
drift over me, cool breath
finding my face, my flesh
bruising, flushing, knitting
our words are a spattering of sparks
against black satin
i can hear the crackle

i dreamt of dawn’s eye
it saw me
arching its back, golden weaver
each day i have slept in the cradle
of memory, the palms of darkness
as much a home as any
our words, a scattering of stars,
against dark waters
i have been a stranger to my waking days
but strong
soft, but strong


no, fear

no. fear. the words hang off of lips, gaudy decorations, swaying from side to side. have no fear. as if you are not an animal, as if the contours of desire have always been congruent within the empty chambers of the so called higher.

it as if you have dug your hands into your conscious soul and when nothing but the void rang out you flinched, stiffly, swallowing, battling once soft lungs and curving spines with an offhand dismissal: this is fine.

but there is a darkness within my heart again, there is a darkness within the walls again; i have curled up naked on the path again, and when i raise my eyes to the sun again, i hear it: be fearless.

seven a.m. one pair of porcelain legs amongst sleep warmed sheets, an open window, the songs of birds rejoicing in golden light. i don’t want to be alone.

nine a.m. blueberries and cream, tea leaves, a good book. when the hand on my watch shudders it takes my heart with it. the day is passing. breathe in, breathe out. you can’t lose what you don’t have.

one p.m. i have coiled myself around my heart, but with every passing stranger it slips past me. when i ask for anyone’s afternoon the words pile in my throat, messy syllables and shy eyes. they say yes, life flows, and i apologize later. one day i will build my home.

five p.m. a restaurant i don’t know in a neighbourhood i have never heard of, my phone is dying and i’m not sure what bus to take. a ten dollar bill, a quick smile, and the setting sun. the bus driver answers my questions and i relax. i start to wonder if i’ve always known what roads can bring me back.

ten p.m. one hand against tear stained eyes, a blank sheet of paper, an open window, the rush of cars through a star kissed night. i am reduced to nothing in the face of passion. i am reduced to nothing but dreams of action. i slip between my covers. i don’t want to be alone.

seven a. m. be fearless?

i laugh, get up anyway


the river runs cold in the morning.
my blood, warm in the evening.
i do not know
the music you play
the songs you sing

but i heard you

the forest drops its pine cones to the ground
i can hear them falling,
promised breaths of quiet life
in the dirt, they find new homes

i drop to my knees and loathe the sound
we clutch our pillows,
tenderness, strife
upon the floor, old homes

the river runs gold with the dawn.
my thoughts, haze upon the dusk.
i do not know
the songs we play
the words we sing

why can’t i hear you?

the river runs


i hold my camera up to take a photo of myself. snap. immortalized. snap. look at me – i was here, i was alive, i felt something. snap. look – i am beautiful. i was beautiful in this moment.

and that’s been the goal the whole time, right? i was okay. i was here. please tell me i was here.

sometimes, i stare blankly at mirrors and let myself sink into the realization that yes, i am there. sometimes, time loses its linear confines and i can feel the rot. is that what it is? rot? or just the weight of the hour hand hiding in a clear-eyed reflection? snap. i have control, i was here. am i right?

i put my hands to my face and dig my nails in. there’s some half held expectation that i’ll break through the surface, let the decay seep through, my temporal disease, as if it hides in wait beneath the surface

instead, i’m left with red half-moon marks over youthful freckles, and a quiet warmth that whispers to the heavy heart – snap – you’re still here

good. good. right? i watch the moons swell and fade, as if nothing happened. my heart swells too, but it refuses to dissipate. this was the truth the whole time, right? i was okay. i am here. i felt something. i feel something.

I hear the lonesome echo of a whistling train – the past lowing softly to the present. The glow of a lamp – there are cats on its shade, happy and round – and the pink sparkle of holiday garland too beloved to hide from the days of summer. Honey dew flesh and the sound of angels. The sweet screech of another car being added to the song of that distant train.

Transformation is collision, reverberation – crash head first into the new until, silently, your flesh evolves. I have slipped in and out of the guise of identity with silent flourish, living madly, crushed happily, devastation. The child sleeps, the youth pines, the rest, the in between, is simply dizzy from slipping tongues across whatever remnants of truth lie in wait. We construct to destruct, leaving trails of blood, paths of petals crushed and blooming. Do we reflect upon the actions we take in the name of rejuvenation, gently, truly? I have built a dream out of a self that offers only dissipation – life is joy when given into, when thrown against the confines of expectation, trepidation: a new condolence for a fluid figure, the shadow of self is only ever cast ahead