On my most private of places, I wear your brief despondent intervals of sobriety.
The lovers nestled in their cold cavernous caves sicken at the coming sun.
She existed in the creases of his hands; like tiny shards of glass She filled the space.
I'm in the kitchen painting peaches with juices dripping down my chin.
This business of grief
The boy who hides won't find comfort in the silence of his head.
Doe, do something only I could understand, walk in the middle of the road with your eyes closed.
I turn to respond only to be greeted by the soft caressing scent of a pine fire
For over a year now, I've been working full-time as a writer and editor, involved in projects that I love. This newsletter will help people stay up to date on all my work.
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