the lost words

I wrote poems for you.
About the way you made me laugh,
about the songs that made me think of you,
about the way your words ran down my spine,
about the northern lights that shone in your eyes.
But the words are gone now,
missing, like you,
and loss consumes me.


But when we drive for hours,
and the stars are bright about us,
I find the northern lights again.
I hold them in my hand, and they are brighter and clearer than my words ever knew.
And we play our songs,
and I feel your voice and shiver,
and I throw back my head and laugh until the tears stream down my face.
The words are lost.
But they were always so much more than just words.


{and from the moment I saw your face
I have spent each day trying to create a rhythm that will echo in this hollow chest the way your heartbeat did
to discover a melody that will light me like the stardust in your fingertips
a tune that matches the sound of your voice
pouring every inch of my soul into a piano, only to recreate the way you made me feel in that moment
and this is why I write…
for you.}

yet black and white keys

cant fill me like your soul, for

i am bound by words



[note: a few weeks ago, i was sick and running a high fever, and since writing is my primary way of dealing with emotion – particularly pain – i began writing about how i felt. this is what came out. my mind was a hazy blur from the fever, so i don’t entirely remember writing this, but later, i found it and enjoyed reading it]

I dream about falling asleep. About a whisper that could slide between my cracked lips and ease the burn in my throat. A thought that would turn this raging furnace into a cool, still lake. But I distract myself. I dream of the things I could say, if I could hold your hand under the shadow of a city, and stand on the edge of a green cliff over a sea. But when I close my eyes, the gold in between the cracks of the blinds is dimmed to soft starlight, and I raise my hand, and shadows of lace tattoo my fingers. This is it… the breath, the pulse, between where everything is still and where everything changes and is thrown to chance. A trickle, a drop of water, suspended between a river and a glacier. So we look neither forward nor backward.

Words, pages, white – so much white – and dreams and faces that watch me even when I’m awake. The coolness in the air fights my heavy breath, and lights my fragile, volatile skin.

The light is changing now, deepening to vanilla blue. Hints of violet brush the afternoon and run. If I fell asleep now, I think I would stay here for a long time. I could. I could stop and hold my heartbeat and forget everything forward and behind. Even the sun running down the sky. Or is it ink? I’ve written myself. Am writing myself. It’s getting harder to swallow, and my words blur with the pain of sight. My hands feel the daylight and try to fly, but my heart is so tired and we ache for stillness. I’ll return. This moment will pass, and I will never again be it, remember it. But now





You are the greyness of the sky above me, biting the black of these buildings. The damp world puddles at my feet and I stir it with my thoughts. I fall. Fell. But you were everywhere else but waiting for me.

I touch the pavement beneath. It is hot and wet with spring rain and my feet curl into the rainbows of the black roadways. Your voice is a single note, a cello, and it leads me forward and pulls me under the streets until I fall into the saltwater beneath. And as I stare at all these underwater tunnels, I hold my breath because I know which one leads to you. I know every inch of the inside, and I am so deep in imagining what it would be like that I can feel the cracked surface, each inch of tar, the bumps and ridges of stone. I could surface and see your face. I hold my breath, but you aren’t holding yours. And I see everywhere else I could go. You aren’t the oldest road I could swim through to the light. I could stay beneath city streets. Because somewhere the music grows quiet and I can feel my own melodies and somehow it is cooling. My skin is hot and the rumble of life above me makes me tremble. I pause.

How long have I lived? you wonder. I say: How many times have I whispered? Here the world is hanging from a string and spinning, strange and merciful, like the loosened voice of peace. And nothing is as spacious as this moment.


Just because I haven’t called you doesn’t mean that I don’t miss you. Just because I haven’t told you that I need you doesn’t mean that I’m not longing each second to show up at your door. Just because you’ve stopped thinking of me doesn’t mean you aren’t my last thought when I sumberge beneath a stormy sleep. And when it’s 3 AM and I’m lying here, watching the Christmas lights above my bed flicker, not hearing the music through my headphones – that doesn’t mean that I don’t wish I were laughing with you right now. I think that if I were to see you again, my heart would twist and constrict, would thud like the heavy clunk of broken machinery, and I don’t think I could breathe. Maybe you would feel something, too. But then it hits me: we’re nothing more than strangers. But I’m still here for you. I won’t stop waiting. I won’t stop being ready for when you want me in your life again. And all I want to know is if you’re happy now.

I try to tell myself that I don’t, but deep down, I still care.


                                                          the skyscrapers
i spin. my lungs burst
                                                          and streets burn with light
when im thinking of you, of
                                                          yellow daylight caressing
swollen fields and
                                                          the smooth surfaces
of your fingers
                                                          pulling my heartstrings,
running through my hair
                                                          softly twirling
and rustling against
                                                          me again.
the soft breath of
                                                          a whisper in the
pines, echoing through the
                                                          smoky air listens to the
night. the milky twilight becomes
                                                          melodies, echoing, through a city, and
fields of fireflies, dancing to
                                                          the song of you,
the stars over the hills,
                                                          and the planes flying up,
taking me up to the sky
                                                          and far away.

beautiful people

“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”

– Elisabeth Kübler-Ross