A conversation between two people transpired: 7:00PM clothed a friend and me. Right beside me, another friend had cigarette smoke for breath. Our electronic devices revealed that our faces exist. Three pages worth of thoughts made itself heard in black and white.
The friend, a she, who knew so much of hearts and would have a heart-shaped expression when you tell her about any form of love, swapped the emptiness in her hand for my paper. Her eyes felt the anatomy of my letters, and she felt what they all meant. She felt that the dress was fabricated metaphors that dig your cheeks to reveal dimples. The rhythm, the tone, the love, and the careful tailoring of the well-fellowed words pulled the corners of her mouth from their land to the stars.
You can see in it her eyes. She knew that those may have been sown as prose, but it was an embroidery of a boy’s poetic infatuation with a girl.
I visited a stranger's grave.
A Lover's Quarrel with Writing
Motion. Emotion. Slow motion. Hide my intentions. Show my imperfections. Everyday I'm just trying to get myself into motion.
2pm on a weekday. I'm over this. No more complaining. I'll use that energy to plan my escape.
Stories I Couldn't Tell Her - Part 1 of Countless
When I think of being content, this is what I picture.
On this cold, clear January night, some trick of the atmosphere makes the distant city lights twinkle like stars.
#1: Learn to receive love.