Southwark Cathedral

I lit a candle for you.

The chapel was empty but the light was still shining through-

I don’t know why I did it, but I lit a candle for you 

and just as soon as I had,

I ran out clutching my heart and gasping for air

and I stood outside in the courtyard

looking at the exquisite gothic architecture and 

lines, avoiding the vortex of sadness

that constantly tries to take over my life.
Still, I lit a candle for you.
I don’t even know why-

You never believed in these things and neither do I.

Maybe I lit a candle to keep you alive

Somewhere between the archways of this cathedral and the glass stained windows all around.

I lit a candle for you 

And then had to run outside to breathe

because the only thing I can ever do for you now 

is light a candle for you,

and that doesn’t solve anything;

it doesn’t mean anything;

it doesn’t change anything. 

Still, I lit a candle for you 

maybe so others would see that I once loved and lost deeply, too;

I once believed in something, too.

Maybe I lit that candle 

for me.


I can’t tell you how many days after it happened, but suddenly I felt the urge to know exactly what happens to our bodies when we die.

What happened to his body.

I found myself obsessed with the subject, researching the topic for hours online, staying up late reading on the vacuum that is the world wide web everything I could find.

Far from being “dead,” a rotting corpse is teeming with life.


I didn’t even make a note or highlight. I knew the word would be immediately engraved on my mind. And once it was, others came to join it-





Discoloration of the body, I learned, was caused by anaerobic bacteria feeding on the body’s tissues, and as a result, fermenting the sugars in them to produce gaseous by-products, which in turn lead to bloating.

His blue fingernails.

His purple lips.

These gases continue to build up causing blisters on the skin’s surface, followed by loosening of the skin.

The gash on his head.

How did they manage to keep him looking like him if they found his body two days after he had taken his last breath?

I’m sure his entire face and hands were covered in makeup by the time I got to see him.

Cold on a metal table.


And in that moment, there were no words to describe what I felt when I saw whatever parts were left of him held together by science.

No amount of research could’ve prepared me for that.



Mornings Like This

There is comfort laying still in the silence between us

Who are you, dear?

Have you also been searching for 

mornings like this?
With my feet wrapped around and between your legs,

I am silent and still

At peace

As our newest favorite song plays on repeat
Mornings like this

Is what everyone dreams of

And not many get to have

So if I get nothing else from you but this quiet morning with your warm body beside me

Let me tell you now how much I love it-

To have you become a fixture in my world,

even if briefly

On mornings like this. 

An Ordinary Sunday

I’ve been thinking a lot about the ordinary days, the ordinary moments when in a millisecond, everything we know and hold dear changes.

It’s Sunday, September 13th, 2015 at around 6 pm. I’m in the backseat with one of my friends, coming home from dinner and planning to head out again to a brewery for a couple of pints of a limited release brew

and then…

He’s passed away, his best friend said from the other end of the line

I couldn’t breathe. I remember clutching my heart in some irrational attempt to try and hold the pieces together. It could only be because my heart understood then what my head couldn’t: he was gone. Dead. The word was too strong for his friend to say, but I understood what he meant.

Or rather, at least my heart did.

It made no sense but explained everything then- the unanswered calls and texts over the last few days, the plans for the weekend he never got to make with me… That wasn’t like him.

It wasn’t like him to drop dead either.

just an ordinary Sunday 

an ordinary day in the Fall

Life changes in an instant and it’s gone just as fast, too. I’m not sure what’s more terrifying to me now- the fragility of life or the destruction of death.

Paul has passed away, he said

And I stood outside under the falling leaves, clutching whoever and whatever I could as I tried to hold on to any sense of reality left in my world.

Just an ordinary Sunday

an ordinary day in the Fall






Notes to My Pen Pal

I’m sorry I’ve been gone, I’ve had good reason-

I’ve been feeling all the extremes and writing about it, hoping somehow this grief gives life to a book.

there is life amidst death

I’ve read somewhere…

Surely you understand the vortex I’ve been in.
You’re a troubled writer, too.
Tell me, where are you these days? still traveling the world?
What have you written lately?
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.


Stay in this bed

with me

Let me tangle my legs with yours, make of your body my drum, trace geographic patterns with my fingernails along your back, inhale the scent that lingers in between the beginning and the end of your neck

Let me write you some words

Let me taste your lips, your skin, your tongue

Let me learn the sound your breath makes when you’re lingering in the space between fast asleep and awake

Let me do what I do best

Let me love you

For You

I’m writing about your death and the aftermath because I know it’s what you would want me to do.There are easier things to do than to write about death on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

But I can almost hear: “They need to know,” your whisper somehow seeping through the other side- “They need to know it’s okay to be broken and sad and afraid. In your weakness you’ll give them strength. Keep writing, even if that also means you keep crying.”

And so I do.

For them, for me, but mostly for you.