and it feels like a quiet forever.

but it isn’t.

and I hope we both leave home

with a story better than, “we tried.”




ladyfest piece… {roughest draft}

a memoir in instagram captions

the story goes,

a kiss turned paper airplane

advice sewn from my grandmother’s quilt.

a chronology of self preservation

a body more wreckage than relic


I told  you I was a fist full of flowers

a tin can telephone between galaxies

a recital of hushed apologies

a seashell held to your cheek


all I meant was that theres a difference between patience and learning to wait

like, time and I were in no hurry

how the softness never meant breaking,

though it did leave a mark

Like a bare knuckle brawl

We never stopped swinging

I digress.


the story goes,

forgiveness is history’s bitter rival

heavy words rock climbing up your throat

in the expanse of little moments,

me, wading through a barefoot land mine


midnight watched us shape shift


I told you that in my dreams you were a drop of water

a dizzied apologist

both an absolute shape and

an infinite space to be swallowed in

that this was the widest I could stretch my hands and still catch you

this was the gentlest I could pluck the secrets from your hair without out knotting them.

a game of tug a war

and all I meant was this was not friendly fire if both our weapons were drawn

I’m more philosopher than thief

with a flower in the barrel of your violent quiet.

and maybe one day I can write a metaphor big enough to unhinge the truth from your jaw

with my pick pocket mouth

I digress.

I will still write you a safety net exit

a mediocre ending

the lyrics to a Joni Mitchell song on a bathroom wall

the goodbye… intrepid.

and the story will go,

a kiss on the forehead

engine smoke and dimmed tail lights

a blanket of un- wished upon stars

empty page after empty page


Because isn’t every story, a love story about something.

no matter the mess we have made.

You say, love shouldn’t require this many words

and I say, won’t I make it sound pretty any way