Hands fall on paper,
Ink makes love to the nib,
A swooping curl of grace,
The calm charisma of calligraphy.

A letter of love,
Sealed by sweet, soft kisses,
Signed with wishes and dreams,
Left unopened for at least two decades.

Wet tears on parchment,
Words bleed love on paper,
Forced to run long ago,
The brutal callous of calligraphy.

This poem is everything
I didn’t erase

The sea I swam until
the shore was closer
than drowning.

My mind took so many detours.
I ran toward the sun,
become tangled in why
I didn’t do the dishes,
wondered if my bookshelf
had one more space for Apocalyptic.

Sitting in the litter of what
I couldn’t complete I question
if this is poetry or confession.

Tuesday has way more ink
than I have words for paper.

i write of heartache.
it's all i've ever known.
so if you want a poem,
you'll have to break my soul.

made of dead stars
broken dreams, and
a heart dripping with
ink black as night

you called me beautiful
and I am still reeling
because despite my
flaw stained soul
you think I'm everything

even when I feel like
nobody at all

i didn’t want to,
but i wrote anyway.
cracked open
like a shell,
flooding with memory.

some words
arrive as if they’ve waited
their whole lives
to be read.