“It feels like I’m thinning out my soul, turning once sturdy cider bark into bargain bin brown paper bags.”

You love me. But your love, It’s the same love As the January Sun; An abbreviated afternoon Punctured with pockets Of cumulonimbus skies. Your kisses breed frostbite, Coating every syllable In a gelid timber. But I found something, Even if you are Just passing through. And it was enough For me to latch onto, Even … Continue reading “It feels like I’m thinning out my soul, turning once sturdy cider bark into bargain bin brown paper bags.”

“Doing nothing is something; it means accepting that falling apart is as normal for us as breathing.”

I built you a home in my chest by clearing out everything that was useless. My skin was paper, so I cut it away into tiny shapes of cranes, and you smiled as my flightless birds floated on top of the bathwater. You watched them only long enough to see as they made their way … Continue reading “Doing nothing is something; it means accepting that falling apart is as normal for us as breathing.”

I’ve made more friends with ideas set in ink than warm bodies, and that’s perfectly fine with me.

I just want to read books for a weekend, without worrying about work or the world. I want to take away my sense of responsibility, for myself and every other self within a 10,000 mile radius. I want to spend hours browsing at bookstores, moving my fingers along exposed spines. Between all the paper and … Continue reading I’ve made more friends with ideas set in ink than warm bodies, and that’s perfectly fine with me.