This place reminded me of all the quiet places we used to find. The hills behind our seaside house where we used to take the dog on walks we thought would make her tired. It reminded me of the first time you came to visit me and I took you to my secret spot were we sat on the rocky ridge, listened to the echoes of the calls to prayer, and watched the sunset move through the mountains we both fell in love with.

We have seen nearly 400 sunsets since that day.

It reminded me of when you took me around your village, we ate  fruits straight from their trees and you told me ghost stories about the falling buildings.

I felt you today, amid trees and green as I ran through new fields of chickens and children, wondering how we ever got here, so faraway, sometimes so out of tune.

With the gusts of wind, memories too breezed by, commencing a flutter of emotions I have been reluctant to let myself feel since everything changed and our spots--our seaside home, our walks, were no longer ours, just relics to keep us connected.

I'm thankful for these relics, these memories, the feelings too, and for these never-ending places that remind me of you.

I hope to watch more sunsets with you and to find all of the quiet places where things always seem to be in bloom. I hope I get to love you for the next 365 sunsets and for the sunsets of the rest of our lives.

Two cups of coffee later and no noteworthy thoughts.
Progress seems slow on elevated hills,
The spark ignited nothing.
Papers lay under branches you thought would light,
They are empty words anyways, turn them to smoke.
The words I cannot remember, but the feeling I do.
That was a forest fire I could not extinguish.
Rows of blazing trees from within,
I wanted it to stop but it kept accelerating instead.
I had places to go,
People to return to,
All I could do was float back to the elevated hill
Where a different kind of love waited for me
One that was safe,
One that was protected,
One made of raindrops collected from tears I shed.

Hey, it was nice knowing you,
And all your secrets,
And all your ****** fantasies,
And the way your beard smells,
And how your clothes felt on my skin,
And what you like to eat for breakfast,
And how you take your coffee.

Complete,
Raw,
Intimacy.

Self-assured connection.

Dreams of New Zealand,
And boat trips,
And learning to kayak,
And possibilities of falling in love again.


But you are yet another passing ship,
Anchor nowhere to be found,
No ripples left on the path you exited on,

So I guess I will never see you again,
Except on a boat in my dreams.

I don’t know if it was the bomber jacket or the accent, the eyebrow ring or the way you occupied space, how drunk I was or the feelings in the air, but you caught my eye so quickly,



I was fixed on you.



I liked your musicality and your sensuality.

Your taste in movies and watching the rain with you.

Let’s have another sleepover.

I’ll look into your eyes again,

Put my head on your chest.


Maybe this time I will stay.


Maybe this time you wouldn’t go back...

After all these transient years, time, and people

Maybe the only destination we are ever supposed to arrive at is the place of comfort in being alone.

Everything else is transit time;
Waiting rooms,
Airports,
Temporary apartments,

Childhood,
Adolescence,
Young adulthood,

The one who got away,
The one who broke your heart,
The high school friend,
The brotherly love.

That those them—they’ve all been waiting for us to be ready for that lucid moment of being content with ourselves.

That way, everywhere can feel like home and everything won’t seem so fleeting.

Under African skies sit trees with blooming fruits and green fields, lush with rainy season harvest. There are children with eggshell white smiles that are bigger than the dreams their villages ever promised. There are playful mothers who dance alongside their children summoning the Gods to protect and provide for them. Under African skies, there are hearts damaged by neglect and abuse but protected by tough skin that glows effervescent in the suns radiance. There are rusty bikes and fried breads. There are toys made out of banana leaves and plastic bags that always make children excited to play–resourcefulness helps to balance the trials of life and loss and all of the painful predictability of the have-nots. Under African skies, I have been introduced to some of the greatest hardship I have seen anywhere in the world. It is reflected in the scars on ****** bodies who inherit disease and poverty from their parents–in the crumbling homes and failing roofs–in swollen bellies and on naked newborns. Under African skies, I have met industrious people who are steadfast in their work of giving their kin and kind a different chance. In African skies, I have seen clouds change in a moments time creating new seas of colorful patterns I’ve only seen in magazines. I’ve watched the sun set, seen nights roll in accompanied by unannounced heavy rains that make lullabies on tin roofs. I have seen stars sparkle when the whole village turns black. I have looked up, praying on each star that the children will blossom like the fruits on the trees–that they will shine like the teeth in their smiles and dew on their faces. I hope that rain will come again unannounced, and that it will clean and clear the way for another tomorrow–for a new day where what is under the sky will be just as beautiful as what is above.

I’m not sure how much longer I can take it here with all of the uncertainty.
Questions leave marks in my mind as much as they do on pages that I cant seem to finish writing to you.
Everything made so much sense once,
Now it is an ellipsis,
A series of dots finishing out the sentences instead of full stops.
I have a hard time formulating any ideas, especially ideas of you.
What exists is what was, not what will be.
It’s frustrating I can’t create you,
That I can’t make you say things you’re incapable of saying.
I just wish certain things had closure,
Or maybe never opened at all.