books written in symbols were attempts to mimic the language of the heart
somewhere i jotted within an admission of love
i wonder who knew it first and how profound it could be when it was there the whole time
i find myself at Union Station, where people pass time sitting silently in pews.
closing doors kick a breeze that weaves between the columns holding up the heavens the hair on my arm waves like wheat stalks
i’ve got a hunch i could go just about anywhere from here
the halls here just go on and on. it’s not the whole world, but it’s the only place i want to be.
hi everyone, i haven't posted here in a while, but i thought it would be appropriate since i just released my new poetry chapbook. if you like this poem, you should check out some of my samples on my etsy page!