Boxes packed,
stacked like monuments.
He takes my hand —
a ring, a promise,
not goodbye.
Tomorrow I chase the horizon,
heart torn between a dream
and a love I never dreamed
I'd find.
Westbound for now,
but not gone.
I'll find my way home.
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Diary
I never learned the rules about meter or metaphor, or what not to say out loud. I just write what lives inside me: the bruises, the blossoms...
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Apologies to anyone here named Kevin. This one was directed at one Kevin in particular, not you. Dear Kevin, You are the dust and mildew pre...
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I remember your hand. How it moved like it had a right to anything it touched. You smiled, called it a game. And I was so young, I thought n...
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