Where do you put the other half of the words, the ones that don’t end up on the page? Is there a graveyard of lifeless prose somewhere? What is it about another human being’s embrace that feels so good? Why do you like the feeling of another heart so close to yours?
I am risks when I should be safety. I am a lot of things. But a runner is not one of them.
Tell me about a time where you thought of me and it made you smile. Tell me about a time where it made you sad.
“My love
for you
was a universe
in and of itself”
My mom says, “Everybody loves to feel loved. Everybody loves to be desired. There is nothing wrong with making someone feel good.”
It’s a whole different level of grief. Not like any other.
On the first day of spring I am violet sky, and when the leaves fall I am steel. I am never medium blue.