The stars were not to blame
Nor the ocean between us
Or even that dreadful place
We used to call home

It was only you and me
Always a little too wrong
And maybe just a little
Too late

I want to see the northern lights
but I cannot say why

it is said that sometimes
if conditions are right
you can see them from here

but it never seems to work
for me

even if the sky is clear
I cannot see them
when I am told I might

others say they have seen them here
I don’t think I believe them

some set a camera
on very long exposure
to take their picture

I can’t stare at the sky
for a very long time
all at once
like a camera

maybe I want to see them
because I haven’t seen them before

there are other things I want to see
but never have

like the life I was meant to have
with you

maybe if I’d had
a better camera

"first bruise"

Streetlamps flicker,  
echoing their silence.  
The chill—  
not just in the air,  
but between glances  

that once burned.  

Footsteps dissolve  
into memory's fog,  
while love  
learns its first  
bruise.

Long after the music ends,
 the body remembers.

Not the melody
 but the weight of it.
Where the shoulders softened.
Where the fingers held a pause.
Where breath curled around a silence
  and didn’t let go.

The body doesn’t archive like the mind.
It doesn’t recall in sequence.
It remembers in tension.
In residue.
In the way your spine knows
  when something is about to fall.
In the twitch that follows
  a note that’s already gone.

Sometimes, I move like something
  I once heard.
Not consciously.
Just
  a rhythm finds my step
      years later
      and walks me home.

There are gestures
  I no longer know the names for
 but my body still offers them
  like a language it trusts
      more than thought.

Maybe this is how memory stays kind:
  not by being exact,
  but by letting itself
    be danced.

the river
wrapped in a coat
of cold grey stones

slides
its icy lines down
through the mountains

the trees
long leafless
and now heavy with snow

are ever patient
for the moon’s return

this is the season
we grow old

this is the reason
we grow young

when the quiet breaks


i learned to love the silence
not because it felt like peace—
but because it never lied to me.

the noise left bruises,
every laugh a little jagged
every “i’m fine” cracked at the edges
and every promise wore someone else's face.

but silence? she didn’t pretend.
she just sat beside me while my hands trembled,
while my breath forgot how to stay.

people say healing is loud
but mine looked like folded laundry
and rooms i didn’t run from.





.