Letters, Poetry

c l o t s

blood looks different on every letter that I write to you. they all reek of my desperation, like your heart reeks of me. my fingers have forgottenĀ  how to move in circles over ridges and falls of your name, but my dreams whisper your name to me at 2:14 a.m.; remember how you left me… Read More c l o t s

Letters, Poetry

Le dernier

The last time you were home, the six walls felt like shelter in the midst of a hurricane; we sipped cold coffee toppling with ice cream, took out our paint brushes and instead of the blue galaxy we dreamt of painting in a cloth big enough to hide us from the wars outside, you drew… Read More Le dernier