read all about it

as the news start to spread

I’m met with a wave of love

that I’m not quite sure

what to do with.

Honestly I just feel honored

that so many hearts are able to bleed

to pay off the price

of mine breaking in parts.


the end.

“I’m not in love with you.”

the words drop from his mouth

and fly straight into my gut,

settling down like a bad hangover.

they say hearts break

but mine feels as though

it’s been turned inside out.

It takes my eyes almost a full hour

to let the first tears


they tried so hard not to ruin the makeup

I did to make myself pretty for him.

then I notice his socks are missing from their spot.

then his underwear.

I rummage around the apartment

searching for evidence

that he’s really gone.

That’s when I see the empty spot on the mirror where his toothbrush hung.

That’s a bad sign.

No no one takes their toothbrush anywhere

without first making plans

to stay the night.

He’s probably already on his way to his uncle’s house

and will soon be unpacking clothes that will never again

lay next to mine,

starting his new life

without even a proper goodbye.


And I’m in bed trying to read

and drink wine

as if I didn’t feel my heart

being torn apart

inside of me.


how you doin’?

I’m enveloped in a cloud of smoke

hoping it’s big enough

to dull my heart

even mezcal wasn’t strong enough-

if anything it just made me miss him



If I could talk to him

I would ask

“what are you doing, amore?’

But broken hearts speak like strangers

his words now so carefully arranged

so as not to tear me apart

which is ironic

because it’s much too late

for such niceties now.


But hey, that’s ok

maybe this is just what I needed

to get my creative juices


Lord knows I’m no stranger to pain.

So I welcome it in.

Tell it I missed it,

even though I was hoping

we’d never see each other again.

770 Lincoln Place

Before I had my own four walls

there were those who had theirs

and welcomed me in,

gave me a place to lay my head,

rest my heart.

I had no clue back then

what an extraordinary gift that was-

I took their kindness for granted

and disappeared without a trace

when my mind made the four walls close in on me

and left me wishing for death.

But when four walls become a home

and strangers become family

walking away is always temporary.

So like the prodigal son I returned,

arms open this time,

desperately trying to replace

the loss in my heart

with love.

And as soon as I was embraced

and welcomed back,

I regretted all the time I wasted

closing myself off to the support

I always wanted and needed

but didn’t know

how to ask for.




I am inclined to say that it’s been four years

since I lost him but

the word “loss” no longer

feels appropriate

like it once did.


Now I understand

love is stronger than death

and since that’s the case, the fact remains

that I will never lose him.

He is still here- in my heart, in my memories,

in the early Fall breeze,

in his mother’s eyes and brother’s smile;

He’s all the runs I’ve gone on at sunrise and the

strength that allowed me to carry on-

he is my friend, he is my love, he is my sweets

he’s not an object I leave behind

when my thoughts are scattered.


Four years later

and there’s some perspective

on grief and all the life

left to live.

how to make a poet cry

there was a time when I woke with poetry

and went to bed with it,

a time when I walked the streets singing,

greeting birds and trees on my way

somewhere I didn’t have to be.

There was a time when I had time to waste.

When my biggest fear wasn’t failure

but unhappiness,

a time when I didn’t feel so overwhelmed by life’s daily responsibilities

which have come to feel like heavy shackles lately.

The biggest problem in being a poet these days is that when you’re looking for poetry in the daily

and don’t find it-

maybe because there was just so much to do (there always is),

you feel the burning question inside of you:

“what’s all of this for?”

and all the small victories and glories at the office

no longer hold any sense.


When the daily becomes the mundane

that’s the quickest way

to make a poet cry.


fragments of a moment

cross legged on the floor writing

as he reads a hardcover I brought him

music fills the space between us and

the scent of citrus permeates the air

today we have no schedule

if we wanted to we could take a nap

in the middle of the afternoon

and wake up without an alarm clock

shaking our dreams so callously

back to reality

if we wanted to we could build a fort and have popcorn and wine for dinner

and watch Netflix until our eyes overcame with sleep

but instead we are


in the sweet comfort and mutual understanding and

respect for our needs.

I’ve been so exhausted I haven’t had energy

to pay lady inspiration a visit lately

and he knows this.

so he lays with a book in hand and I sprawl

all my pens and journals on the living room carpet

and kindly ask creativity

to join me for a writing date.

And up above I can almost see love smiling down on us proudly

vaguely remembering the days

we swore off


for good.


For Sundays

The humming of the refrigerator has become my favorite sound.

It’s Sunday and we’re up before the sun, laying side by side with our backs flat on the shaggy carpet in the living room. Blankets cover our bodies and I place a sleep mask over my eyes. He opts for his blue bandanna. We breathe deeply, our arms intertwined and hands clasped. I try to listen to every sound, but it is so early the rest of the world is still sleeping.  There’s just the humming of the refrigerator and the swooshing of our breaths filling the space around us. In and out. With my third eye I see flashes of light and a never ending dark night sky. And when the time comes to fully return to my senses and this body in this world,  I will see a sky colored in pink, purple, and orange, and he will still be wrapped up tight in a blanket and I will look back at him and wonder how it is that the sight of him can rival a sunrise.

I live for these little moments when I can feel so full and whole and safe.

For slow Sundays and sunrises and plans of forts while drinking coffee and making pancakes. For the every day magic and the humming of the refrigerator that keeps me believing life is worth living. Love is worth giving.