Writing poetry is like making love:
if you have to force it, stop.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

I teach your name to the breath of words,
to the folds of dusk, to the quiet cups of morning
then I turn inward to who we are beneath the surface of silence.
no thread of certainty but rhythmic pulses I feel  
the horizon’s glow is fading
I craft love from the certainty of unspoken fears 
I etch poetry into the air to sooth my eyes from absence

Layer upon layer
Petals close embrace.
Like
my lovers closing arms.
A rose fully open.
Waiting… to be plucked.
Red rose from lover’s Eden
Fover your gardener I’ll be.


Shell ✨🐚

Miles upon miles,
Riddled with beds.
Tissues and soft hands,
To wipe my tears.
Piles upon piles,
Of blankets and food.
A nice, big bowl
Of serotonin.

It has begun,
After an awful eternity of training,
It started,
The excitement of not being affected.