I am pretty sure that I should stop fishing alone. It is kind of
stupid to go there and spend all my time but find nothing.
What's worse is that it was dark and any sound could
make me feel scared. I didn't feel so scared when we went
fishing together even if it was dark.

So even though you are only six years old, you are
absolutely important. You make me very brave.
Now I am not brave any more.

I hope you can be brave there.

mom

On this day, in this moment
suspended in time, I cannot tell if I am falling
through the world or if the world is
falling past me.

My life is a falling star.
An ancient soul with
nowhere to go but down. Nowhere
to run but away.

The sky is so cold and lined
with frost, grandiose in its sharpness.
Don't catch me as I'm falling,
lest I burn through your hands.

I am a falling star, with
a life as short as a flash and as
deep as a black hole. I am
a broken thing that still shines.

I am standing here alone
In this room of empty sighs
Pressing blades upon my skin
Trying not to close my eyes

What is there to bring me comfort?
Who is there when it gets rough?
Tell me why it won’t get better:
I’m not pressing hard enough.

Her name is Lillia,* and I think
               I love her. Her name is Lillia and
   I think I love her and she smells like
             caramelized marshmallows with Honey
                                                           ­                Crisp apples.
                              Or was it Braeburn?
    She smells like Anjou pears and one
           day old rose petals (Scentimental, I think
            they’re called). Her soul would put feathers
                                                to shame with its lightness. When
                       she says my name I hear the crystal echo
        of wolves among the cliffs, and the ******
  of fluted champagne glasses swirling
                              merry contents. Her waist
                                   is like an hourglass where time
                          melts away in a daring drip of
                   not-quite-a-solid-but-is-sand-a-liquid-no-it’s-not.
         ­    Her name is Lillia and I don’t quite
                                      remember how I met her but it’s okay
             because I’m here and she’s here and
                                                             ­        the end justifies the means, right?
Her name is Lillia and I want her
                    to stay with me until all of the stars
    in this starry night become hers. Her name
                        is Lillia, and I am too transfixed by her
        hair swaying in the breeze to notice
                            that she has already walked
                *farther away than I could ever follow.

Love is not for everyone
Love manifests itself in the darkest places,
in the dingy, cracked-tile linoleum
of strangely lit rooms with
flickering bulbs and glazed
eyes staring into the glass
but seeing nothing
on the other side.

Love is not for everyone
Love escapes from the grasps of those who
are the most desperate.
Trailing from their fingers like the
thick, spider-web smoke
of smoldering cigarettes
and the lazy twirl
of a steamy breath
on a winter day.

Love is not for everyone
Love flames and burns the world,
setting alight anything anyone
once told you about life.
Love consumes
and then spits hearts out like
a machine, fine tuned for
efficiency and not meaning.

Love is not for everyone
Love smiles with gleaming white teeth
that hide a black rot deep
under the shiny pearls of illusion.
Love brushes a hand over
people who least expect it, and
love leaks from eyes in
shimmery crystal rain drops.

Love is not for everyone
Love is made OV LiEs