black ash and blackberry juices staining my white fingers
i lean back and taste
the feel of a late summer sunset, cool and quiet
like the moment before a sudden rainfall.
the august sky above,
all those
blushing clouds
shying away from your camera’s lens,
slipping off
into something more comfortable
beyond the darkening horizon.

i’m floating in the blue moonlight,
dreaming with my eyes open, of
my fingers and mouth on your hips,
tongue soft on your skin,
my hands drawing you in
and i feel
you
holy.

your mouth tastes like pomegranate seeds and the earth,
like charcoal and nectar,
my flesh trembling like a hummingbird
afraid of new beginnings and abrupt endings
but you,
how are you different?

eighteen years lived
in shy monotony in
my town where I
couldn’t breathe

where I was born in
the hospital right next
to where my doctor
fills my prescription for
anxiety meds

where summers are
the colour of the sunflower
fields that I drive past
on my way to work
and smell like the
lilacs my mother trims from
our tree out back

where winters,
though laughably mild,
are petrichor and
taste like fresh oranges

where we have a tunnel
for frogs to safely cross the road
and turkeys consistently block traffic
and if the wind is blowing right
all you can smell
is the manure that gives us
the reputation of ‘cow town’

lady-bird is right
who would ever
voluntarily
move here?

all those times
we sat in the patchy grass
rolling down the steep hill
outside of the community theatre
and eating fries
we moaned and complained
“**** this town”
“there’s nothing to do”
we begged the universe
for spontaneity
and yet
when I had to leave
all I wanted to do was
find excuses to stay

I guess
boredom is safety,
safety for my anxious mind
no risks required in
cow town.

I come from fleeting moments,
driving through downtown at 4 am,
when the sky is dark
and the town is quiet.
sleepy, heavy lids,
tired laughter, and sipping airport coffee.
the feeling of excitement and
nervous anxiety,
where your heart beating
is the only thing you can hear.
I come from the powerful feeling
of unity,
a certain carelessness in the way
we would walk and talk and laugh,
as if work and irritating people
were nothing but a discarded memory
of yesterday.
the unique opportunity to see everybody
at their most vulnerable—
messy hair, dark circles, barefoot,
but nevertheless enjoying life.
I come from memories of the mundane sort,
that may seem trivial,
but I hold them close.
memories of elevators, boats, buses,
running fast down the street
because we forgot to put on
black pants.
memories of water—
oceans, showers, pools, hot tubs.
I come from balconies and hotel rooms,
the soft thudding of feet on the carpet,
knocking at doors.
I come from the squished confines
of a mirrored elevator,
awkward laughter and forgotten room keys.
I come from sweet firsts
and bittersweet goodbyes.
the loud roar of cannons,
the sound of our music—
all of our talents coming together,
making a thing of beauty.
I come from salty fries and
the sense of belonging I get
in a big group.
banter, bad jokes, and odd stories.
I come from slight regrets,
but beautiful memories.
I come from saunas,
lightbulbs, and sunburns,
black and white clothes,
and tight shoes.
I come from sweet coffee,
from three types of juice
at breakfast,
and soda mistaken for water.
I come from raucous dancing,
a night of finality,
but finding intense joy in
such finality.
I come from queen sized beds,
sharing rooms with best friends,
the lovely times where you just
relax.
I come from a million stars in the sky
and a million lights on buildings.
I come from the cold night air
and the joking, half-yelled conversations,
the stomping feet,
the listening at doors.
I come from times spent
with my loved ones,
and being intensely happy.

I’m from words

scattered on a page,

expelled from lips and flowing

from my fingers.

I’m from late nights

of heart-pounding stories,

my mother standing in the doorway

tapping her watch,

but I can’t stop, no

not until everything is resolved

and I can close my eyes to a welcoming darkness.

I’m from quiet nights

spent smudging ink on paper,

pouring my thoughts and frustrations

into the tight constrains

of a lined page.        



I’m from hazelnut chocolate,

strong coffee, and suitcases.

I’m from warm hugs, happy tears,

“Ich liebe dich” murmured into shoulders.

I’m from airports and airplanes,

huddling under thin blue blankets,

counting down to when the wheels

will touch land again.

I’m from a language

where there is no “goodbye”—

only “until we see again.”



I’m from moments when

you feel as if you are infinite;

racing hearts, sweaty palms

and the type of laughter

that makes your eyes water

and your chest ache.

I’m from the heavy confessions

said only in the early hours of the morning

when laughter comes freely

and the darkness allows you

a sort of confidence

you’ve never even dreamed of.

I’m from times when near-strangers

become your second family.

Nervous laughter and butterflies,

orange juice at breakfast and

the muttered reassurances that

“yes we will be back by nine.”

Wet hair and listening through doors,

spending way too much for a scoop of gelato,

but most importantly,

I’m from moments

of careless freedom.