settle down with a story, learn to live constantly, rather than in leaps and gasps. Little moments are precious treasures though; collect them, write about them, feel everything that is ought to be felt.  

Steep yourself like tea; laze in warmth, seep in that couch and finger the plaid coverlet worn with age now. These coverlets; they are now relics of a bygone era and you know that. Treasure them nonetheless.  Run your fingers over each stitch; it was made with care. In these moments, exist languidly and proudly, and stretch yourself out to realize just how big you have become.

For you, I have left three crates of books in my apartment; two boxes have been read, notated, and worn by cautious fingers. One has been left unread, aged by time; the books will smell of yellowed paper and the covers will be dusted over. I have collected them, from libraries to garage sales, and now I impart their wisdom onto you.

Fear is primal and raw, it latches onto you and won’t let go, until you let it. Trust yourself to know when to let go.

Time is aching, it is beautiful, it is as steady as a lake, and it carries on like a wave of water, pulling out and coming in again to lap at your toes. Let yourself sit by the shore and watch the tide.

Remember to breathe. Remember that tomorrow exists, and a hundred more tomorrows afterwards. Remember this.

—to cardinals, with love

You are an angel in the snow, you pale cheeked wonder, with dark eyes so bright. Go to sleep now, don’t stay out in the blue black cold, under the new moon, in the night air that will soon glow pink and glassy with the sun.

I thought if I could swallow the stars
I’d be as beautiful as the evening sky
I tried one night    with fireflies
They burned my throat
Their legs striking at soft flesh
But my skin did not glow
No moon crawled from my eye sockets
I was left with corpses in my stomach
I soon learned I would only ever be
A cemetery

It’s warm, like that muggy heaviness that hangs in the chlorinated air above pools; artificial and stifling but comforting nonetheless.
You get too close, and the neon will burn your eyes. A remnant of something long gone, but it lives on. Its warmth would **** you, you know. Don’t get too close.

And so I painted a little red house for us to live in, darling, with a brown roof and four sturdy walls and we could live there, live there in that little red house and pick thistleberries and have stained glass windows and teabag dresses and little leather boots