I don't know where I'm going
or why I'm going
all I know is I am going

I sit in darkness
Staring at the page

I jot down the thoughts
Trying to release the pressure

Sometimes the page is left blank
Because there's nothing else to say

In my writing hour

we grew a little too fast that the stretch marks were forced to stretch a little too far

"It's eight thirty," she says,
Her feet crossed and hair falling out of a braid
A French eight thirty means glittering lights
On the Eiffel Tower,
Street venders selling champagne,
Couples on the street corner,
Wishing you were here

As far away as I am,
I only want him to feel definite.
So until the moments in between time blend into the crashing tide of eternity,
I'll be there -
Scratching love notes into his back on lazy Sundays

I want you to grow your hair out. The halo of tiny curls that have begun to tangle and coil around your ears make it impossible for my mind to focus on anything but running my fingers through them.

I opened up parts of myself to you and finally they healed like they were supposed to.

Once on a Tuesday evening you kissed me, you looked at me and I wasn't just me I was ten million other things, and I knew by your soft touch you loved me. In the way you said my name I knew.