Category: The Only Worlds We Know

There is no word for a journey comprised entirely of leaving.

Just yesterday. I found new ways to say I miss you, my god how I miss you all.

God, if I could make money off this memory I might just give you everything.

Sometimes I hold a word to my ear like a conch shell. Sometimes I curse the ocean for what it cannot or will not say.

There is no word for a journey comprised entirely of leaving.

Each moment of winter is so faint and silent it is a memory even as you live it.

What terrible magic: the day we find out who we really are.

My faith is so thin now it could slip by me as easy as a whole year.

My grief sleeps, misshapen by rain, beside the entrance to some lightless building. I do not know the doorway without it. I can’t even remember what’s on the other side.

What a terrible magic, the day we find out who we really are.