Stream of Consciousness

Fallen leaves remind me of November in Portland. They are green now; they were red then. Angels danced in rainstorms, and lovemaking struck lightning. They stirred something in me, something familiar. Something kind of like hope. Something kind of like home.

What We Don’t Talk About

Now there’s talk of militarizing the moon. Stripping away whatever purity is left, maybe we are all just broken angels with busted wings. Or maybe all of the angels have come and gone, the devils live here now.

Slow Kisses and Kerosene

You are helping me find this new version of me. I let the darkness dissipate. I feel childhood again – you know, what it’s really supposed to be like. Ink-stained fingertips and chalkboard sidewalks, bed forts and belly laughs. Growing up innocent and idyllic.

April Cherries, Summer Vineyards

It feels like one of those quiet afternoons in July that drip molasses and honey from rustic windowsills of brick and barrel. Breadcrumb trails and leftover cheese line the crevices like pixie dust and pirate hooks. My hair is sticking to my balmy lips; a light wind cradles the vineyard hills – a mother and a womb of grapes of purple and black.

Shoulder Blade Braille and Floating Stars

It was a slow drip, the way he made love to me. Exhaling sighs into my bones, letting fire mix with marrow. His fingers pulsed into my skin, and I could feel his heart beat under the blue rivers of his wrist. I let him seep into me. The smell of his evening shower, and the grizzly needles along his jawline dotting Braille along my shoulder blades.