I remember when the world was a honey *** —
sweet and endless,
when the biggest worry was a blustery day
and whether Piglet would blow away.
The sky was wide, and the ground was soft,
and the trees whispered secrets if you listened long enough.

Back then, I knew the Bare Necessities by heart:
A river’s hum, the sun’s warm kiss,
feet splashing through a world that never asked for more
than laughter and a little bit of wonder.
Baloo taught me how to sway with the breeze,
to let life be easy —
but no one told me the breeze could turn cold.

They don’t warn you when the Hundred Acre Wood starts to shrink,
when the trees lose their magic
and just become trees.
One day, you wake up and Christopher Robin isn’t coming back —
and you realize you have to be him now.
You have to pack up the toys
and leave the forest behind.

But I miss the forest.
I miss the rustle of leaves that sounded like adventure,
the way a cardboard box was a pirate ship,
or a rocket,
or a house where everything made sense.
Now my ships sink in student loans,
and my rockets crash into expectations.

They said growing up was an adventure —
but no one said it was like Shere Khan waiting in the dark,
all teeth and waiting for you to fail.
No one told me the man-village had rules:
Wear this. Be that. Don’t dream too loud.

But sometimes, when the night is quiet,
I hear Baloo singing in the back of my head.
Sometimes, when the wind shakes the trees,
I swear I see Tigger bouncing through the branches.
And I hold on to those echoes,
those soft, honeyed memories,
because the world gets heavy,
but childhood taught me how to fly.

So maybe I’ll keep a little bit of the forest with me.
Maybe I’ll hum the Bare Necessities when the bills pile up.
Maybe I’ll remember that a blustery day
is just an excuse to hold on tighter to the ones you love.

And maybe, when the world says grow up,
I’ll whisper back —
“Oh, bother.”

In the woods where the wind hums lullabies,
under branches that brush the sky,
lives a bear with a belly full of honey
and a heart stitched in childhood memory.

Winnie.
The. Pooh.
Not just a bear—
but the keeper of our early years,
the echo of laughter between storybook tears,
the soft-spoken truth in bedtime fears.

His house—
tucked under roots,
marked “Mr. Sanders” though we never asked why—
wasn’t just a home,
it was a world.

A mailbox too big, a door too small,
a doormat worn thin from welcoming all—
Tigger’s bounce, Piglet’s squeak,
Eeyore dragging his tail through each week.
A roof that knew the rhythm of rain,
walls that absorbed every growing pain.

And maybe we grew—
our knees outgrew scrapes,
our dreams got new shapes,
but there’s something about that crooked door
that still fits us,
even now.

Because Pooh’s house
was never made of wood and stone.
It was carved in imagination,
lined with pages and patience,
sealed in the syrup of simpler times.

A childhood shrine.
Where days had no clocks
and the only map we needed
was drawn in crayon and hope.

So here’s to the Hundred Acre home—
to the way it held us
when we didn’t know we needed holding.
To the bear who asked for nothing
but a little more honey,
and gave us
a little more magic.

I go back there
every time the world forgets
how to be kind.

Pooh reminds me.
Even now.
And maybe that's the thing about childhood—
it never leaves.

It just waits at the edge of the woods
with a rumbling belly,
and arms
wide
open.

I want to build a home with you
a place pieced together of words,
passed from you to me.

Eventually, the walls will breathe,
and they, too, will whisper
through our bones.

No matter how old we get,
they will still be there.

Although neither of us will
completely own this home,
what we will own
is how it makes us feel
and the memories we'll soon sit on
like furniture.

A place we'll come to spend
most of our time,
an inner standing
that it will house both of us,
no matter how we choose
to express ourselves.

The first meal we'll have,
I'll season with my smile
so you can taste what I taste
and feel what I feel
when I see you.

Then you'll understand
why I have nothing to hide,
why I open and include you
in different places in my life.

In this home I want to build with you,
there isn't a wind or a force
that could blow it down.

Even if we were to separate,
my hands will still remember
how we built it
brick by brick,

the mortar sealed
with a kiss from your lips

Well, babe, I’ve been let go
I am still learning how to let go.
My hands are so tired.
The people we once were,
the you I once knew,
evaporate into the rearview.

If you refuse to drive
hell, if you won’t even touch the wheel
we’ll keep speeding toward something too dark,
something neither of us can name.
I don't want that for us.

If not for me, then for you.
If I take my foot off the gas,
we go nowhere.
You said, let go.
But there is no way I can let go
without leaving you behind.

We don’t have to crash.
Babe, I’m tired.
We’ve driven too far past the last exit to turn around.
Skidded across the median more times than I’d like.
I don’t mind the potholes,
the chipped paint,
or the blurred lines.

but if we pull over,
I’m not getting back behind the wheel

From a bench in the park,
I saw myself walking.

And I thought,
he looks good,
he works, he writes,
he does what he loves,
he has something to offer.

What I offer has value,
I have value.

When I made it to work,
I thought about you
getting through the day,
pushing time forward
until it was finally time to go.
I had no idea what I wanted to eat
until the thought of splitting you open,
watching you sit in the depth of my fork,
did it for me.
A scoop of fried rice,
mixed with gravy
there is something so satisfying
about that first bite,
about savoring the moment,
readying the next forkful.
There’s nothing wrong
with wanting something
that wants you back.

If I spill any part of you
on my clothes,
on my hand,
on the table
I still want you.
I will still have you.

There’s nothing wrong
with burgers, burritos,
or any of the other places I pass.
But in this very moment,
the way these eggs, bean sprouts,
and green onions wrap around my tongue
nothing else compares.
Pressing my fork into your crisp edges,
watching the steam rise
I, um,
should’ve ordered extra

I know you, Moon
Shining pieces of light
that are not your own.

As beautiful as you are,
as full as you look,
there are pieces of yourself
that you hide in the dark
the empty patches
left by those who took
but never gave.

If I could, I'd
climb
up
next to you
and offer you a
piece
of myself,
to make you feel whole.

I, too, know
what it's like
to
hide
pieces
of
yourself.

At least with you,
that piece will be called beautiful,
and no one will know the difference
except for you and me.
I know you, Moon