my writing, my love

someone asks me who got me these flowers; winding soft promising petals, crushing and breathing and blushing under my reverent gaze....

i’m like a time traveler, like a mirage of a woman, counting the mileage of my car on my left hand and the mileage of the grief i have no...

boxes are as tall as me in this miragic moment; words aren’t real - poems are meant to be misunderstood. and i take with me, this vial of...