believing twice in conviction
with a knack for innocence,
she came in like the rain in
summer; hitting hard, lingering
softly. she was still decadence
dropping from the heavens in
echoes, washing away blue
light memories from the moon.
she cleared away all wreckage
in one gentle fall, including me,
without a change in season or
a promise left to break – only an
ounce of hope past the silence
left glaring off the puddles,
which is why I still take to the
window, every time it rains.

Truth will set you free.

I was too busy coddling
our future to notice the
present dwindling to ash,
falling away to memories
of stories we swore would
never become truth; I had
a plan, an escape set in
rhythm to condensation
sought after a whiskey
glass. I just wasn’t quick
enough in execution, and
failed in time to rhythms
of swaying heartbeats,
lighting stories filled of
new promises turned into
memories, with a match.

Reflections in Orange.

I woke early to the sun
streaming through the
bedroom in a light haze
of golden promise.
Autumn is approaching,
a change of season, and
an outlet for the breeze
to come billowing in,
sweeping away all the
sun-kissed memories and
debris of the summer –
a lighter affair to the fall
of laughter and reddened
defeat; a crisp outlook
breaking the gaps, painting
hues of hope in harvest.


Just when the sun thought
she would never love again,
the world as she knew it
shifted, rotated, turning
everything right side up,
and she could still see
mountains, valleys and
lakes, and her hidden smile
returned with the memory
of the blush of the clouds –
before, she was only loving
with half her heart on the
world, and finally she could
open herself up, to love again.


I think back on picnics
in the park – your shades
were bouncing reflections
of the sun into my eyes yet
I couldn’t do anything but
smile. I was busy trying to
harmonize my laughs in time
with yours, filling the silences
between the trees bustling
about and the calls of the
birds – eventually we lay still,
curled up into one another
with only the sound of our
hearts beating, thump, thump,
thump… It’s the melody of
the summer, calling us to play.


I’m living three lies
short of a promise with
no helpful home in sight.
My survival reliant on
caffeine, nicotine, lack
of dreams, with no in
between, and I’ve never
been more friendly than
with the mask of night.
I dare not open my mouth
anymore, for I haven’t an
idea on which version of
the truth will come out;
I know only black lies,
white lies, and how to
swallow my pride – none
of which gets you back
on my side, so why try?

Street Corner

At the intersection of the busy and
very infrequent, where bike riders
would pass without helmets and
walkers would leisurely enjoy the
day amidst the hubble and bubble
of the downtown city; a place near
small commerce and residential with
patches of snow scattered on the
ground, and where I asked if I could
kiss you, on the corner of centennial
mall in the early hours of a morning
in late February. A corner for business
folk to pass by as they venture out of
the office for lunch to stop and gather
their favorite greasy delight, and where
drunks are stumbling to their cars or
someone’s car or just plain stumbling
around but with a purpose they are
telling themselves; where you said
yes, and I hadn’t even a moment to
gather a blush on my cheeks as I
kissed you, and thank goodness
I was leaning into you because my
knees gave way, and I would have
been kissing the ground instead. It is
a place scattered in the butts of lone
cigarettes, and pop cans, beer cans,
beer bottles, wrappers, gum and debris;
a place where most walk by and fail to
notice the sun, the breeze, the call of
the birds hovering in the distance, or
the laughter of the pedestrians as they
continue moving, never quite stopping
until they can whisper a complaint of
their busy lives in the comfort of their
own home. It’s an intersection of the
busy and the intermittent, and I can no
longer tell which one we are anymore.


Last night you almost brought
me to tears – the only one
capable of such a feat with
the complete absence of words
floating around my room in the
hours between two and the moon.
Just tell me it was never real,
lie if you must, because I’m
finding it harder and harder to
decipher what truth even means,
let alone where you stand with it.
Say what you will, for no matter,
there is a realness in your words
that will in truth, bring the tears.


they called her a dreamer,
a wanderer, a bohemian
Aphrodite with words that
cut like a knife; her pen as
her weapon, she was carving
sonnets into the eastern half
of the mountains with only
moonlight and a name on
her lips, while whistling
away love on her sleeve.
she was independence in
July, and as soft as the wind
in late autumn – she was an
attraction to be seen, but like
the promise of the setting sun,
she would leave in a haze, in
a dream set in stone, following
her heart to places unknown.


with the cooling final
days of summer, I took
to my match and pen to
ignite my first and only
bonfire of the season;
tearing apart the wooden
foundations of my past
one wall at a time and
ripping out the faded love
letters of my journal to
set aflame. they burnt in
a golden haze past the
hours of the moon, never
to see the daylight again.