We make sense only after the sun has died and the moon begins to breathe and we’ve sought shelter underneath our blankets.

I’ve never been good at pretty metaphors or painting dreams onto pieces of paper but if I told you I wanted to write about it, you’d be the first to proof read the catastrophe.

I’ve bared witness to our secrets becoming our strengths and I’ve felt our tears become the ocean.

There are dead roses planted at the bottom of my rib cage and you...slow time down long enough for me to believe that I have it.

I promise I never meant to make a home out of your heart but somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting wars and started sinking cities.