I’m still putting together the pieces of what that feels like –
Leaning in over the table paying no attention of the peripheral vision.
I whisper we can skip dinner just eat me instead.
The drinks run dry and I am overflowing.
My apartment?
I wrapped my hand around yours like the perfect present.
In the moments I am thy wholly myself –
I am in love.
Maybe not with this man but this moment.
& that’s so **** confusing.
Cause this moment wouldn’t be as it is without you –
I slip in the car hoping my dress rides up.
Placing all the intentions I had for the night in the backseat.
I am happy & for this moment – that’s all that matters.
So, I turn on the radio and pause for whatever feels good.
This car ride,
These Santa Cruz mountains,
The music,
& your hand grazing my leg.
I am babbling on;
who knows about quite what?
But I remember it coming from the heart, unfiltered as the moonlight.
There is no better feeling -
arriving as yourself to somewhere you never planned.
I take the long way back to my apartment.
Just so I can hold onto that just for a second more.
It took a lot of these steps to walk into the notion it is I taking You home.
A confidence the opens every door & says I am here as is.
Our bodies fold into each other stepping through my apartment.
Every desire entangled as our legs mirror and cross through the sheets.
Usually by this time I’ve already came up with a reason why not?
But his gaze as I bite his lip tells me this is the only self-assurance I need.
That utter freeing feeling of I want you.
It feels good to let go.
Allowing yourself to reach climatical moments that leave you breathless.
Leave you saying baby yes, give me more…
Give me more life.
& moments that shatter all my preconceived notions about love.
About love not having to be a person
but a place,
a moment,
a smell,
a dream…
Another reason to wake up and & say - I am happy to be here.
Because there is so much in life we must move through,
that whatever brings you closer to you is something you choose.
There’s a lot in life we can say yes too.

& I might be still putting together what this feels like....
But I do know just by saying yes; you are saying who you are.

Tongue tied like shoelaces.
I don't need an explanation or proclamation.
Walk out the door without a second take.
Baby, don't you see?
How you leave is an art.

She's morning coffee.
            
            The French pressed kind.

Her taste lingers
                      
                      far after breakfast.

Pour me another cup.

Remember me softly.
If we ever meet again, I’ll be a different phase of the moon.
Etched in the clouds and swept away in the sky.
An expansiveness that reminds us how far we come.
A dream of who we use to be.
Pressed so firm.
We grasped between the moments of breathlessness.
A growing restlessness.
The madness of just trying to make it through.
We’d never thought we would live to see the day.
2021 rolling through.

There are bonds that can’t be broken.
History spans times farther than us, but there are no I’s in it without us.
Just a bookmark where we left off.
Picking it up & finishing the story.
I told her I would always fold the page so I would forget I already read it.
She was in that way – the way in which a story just gets better with time.
One worth reading again and again.
It wasn’t a good novel without a tragedy.
Ours like a reckoning of a hurricane and tornado colliding.
One made for land & the other sea.
She was grounded in the ways I would never come to know of.
Split people like an earthquake beckoning for their essence to emerge.
I loved her that.
& I always will.
*Page Folded – Chapter 1

A novelty.
Her love is pressed lilacs in your favorite book.
I’ve been in love with her an eternity of lifetimes.
If there was an I, there was a her somewhere too.
& the world needed it.
Needed her.


Her bipolar disorder makes her superman ice cream in Mid-July. The spectrum far wider than the napoleon we're accustom to. Emotions melting into each other like organized chaos. Then, converging into a supernova of empathy. An amplifier to all that is forgotten in our ability to feel. I wonder on some days how she can cultivate anything other than mania. Yet, she is more harmonic than Beethoven’s ninth symphony. Do you feel – do you feel the weight of the world, my love? Her world taste of colors. The rainbow of emotions seeping through every orifice of her body.


I’m reminded how much is lost in the translation.
How it must be to feel without a filter. Then, every cry over a stranger seems to be the somber pieces of humanity missing. A world lost in alexymethia – she is the sanity we’ve never known.