Poems

Borrowed Glitter And Borrowed Time – Song [Wreath]Verse 1Last party of the year and the hallway smells like snow and perfume mixed with fries,Coats piled high by the bedroom door like everyone shed their other lives,Speaker on the counter plays a song we swore we were too cool to still know line for line,And every […]

Borrowed TimeWe both knew this wasn’t going anywhere permanent and that was fine,She had a life in Denver and I had a lease on mine,In Chicago, and we had a conference in between us for the week,And by the third night we had found exactly what we’d seek.She knocked on my hotel door at eleven

Blackout Hour, Aftermath SkinUnder flickering motel neon, with stained sheets for an altar and the air thick as unkept ohs,I held you in a trembling hush, chasing the last of my faith in flesh,Hands fumbling for absolution between bruises and back-arched sin,Every breath a confession, every kiss a theft, the night hungry for any ache

Borrowed Glitter And Borrowed Time [Wreath]Last party of the year always starts the same way, with someone texting “I’m five minutes out” while already twenty minutes late and still staring at their reflection wondering if this is the version of themselves they want to pack into the last page of the calendar,Kitchen lights a little

Day Twelve: Vow Renewal Under CandlelightDaylight found us gathering small mementos: the rose from Day Four, a feher from Day Six, a swch of lace from Day Nine. We placed them on the dresser, alongside two tiny silver bands I had engraved that morning: “Yesterday, Today, Always.”Night Twelve: Silver Ribbons and PromisesCandles ringed the bed;

“Before the Dawn’s Embrace” ] (Patina and Rust)In the hush before the break of day’s first light,When silence cloaks the world in shadows deep,Our bodies twist in passion’s fiery rite,Each sigh a promise that the night will keep.In lust’s embrace, our hearts and souls do leap,For in the dark, our deepest longings burn,And every touch

Apathy Book Twelve ClosesA hundred eighty songs and twelve books closed—the grey in every register, disclosedacross the twelve sets of the fifteen,the flat interior examined, the seenand the unseen of the not-quite-trying,the adequate documented, the underlyingweight of the grey in its full catalogue.Twelve books. The grey: my monologue.Apathy Book Twelve closes—the greycontinues past the final

Day Eleven: The Living Room TangoMorning brought a new challenge: a tango lesson in our living room. I cleared furniture to cree space; she found a sultry playlist—Go Barbieri’s “Last Tango in Paris.” We stood face to face, bodies inches apart, and she placed hands on my shoulders.Clumsy first, we stepped on each other’s feet,

Aftermath: The New DawnHours ler, rumors swept the corridors: a faction of Inspectors had seized control, declaring an end to the Regulions of Affection. Citizens in the cellblock pressed faces to the bars, hope igniting where fear had reigned. Mira and Jonah were released—undefiled, their hands finally free.They emerged into the dawn’s pale light, blinking

Aged hands of timeAged hands of timeWehered by the stormLines etched in grimeHistory’s soft warm