—𝑨𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓

Spring is a maiden and summer a man foraging the fairest hand. The nights run hot as the moon hangs heavy. Words become mere breath once the day falls dark enough. Mouths may truth-say in ion’s good conscience what tongues at the altar may lie. Blossoms are wont to blush openly ‘...

I wonder if I embellish you because I wanted you to be the one more than I wanted to be yours. Familiar foe Distance made conquerable on devotion’s tireless wing. Time would lose its healing properties, and the sting of the severing would never secede. Not even in the silence of two clenched jaws, ...

I put myself to bed full of questions: Will the sun shine tomorrow? Will I burn my tongue on anger over morning coffee with my mother? Will I hesitate before opening my eyes when I wake? none of the images used belong to me

He sends me little instagram poems, words by another man. No note. No ‘I hope you like this, truth makes me think of you’. I try to analyze them for him, digging my fingers into the flesh instead of the soul. ‘I love the intimacy of their issions.’ ‘Thank you for sharing that with me.’ I try...

Loneliness had a daughter and christened her ‘Freedom’. Baptized her fontanelle in a big empty church— no one left to pray to Hallows and marble Mothers. All too busy kissing under God’s wide open midnight. The girl grows to have feet buried and hands in the clouds. She feels her mother’...

My best friend tells me it’s nice to see me this way: heart torn from my rib’s cage and stitched sloppily to my cuff. Yours has always been there. Always and ever on that sleeve, never to leave. Never given? Never taken? Ever to be observed, never to be kept? She likes to watch me strip flesh fro...

In other turns of sun which are ed, my soul cast a stain across this same cerulean sky. Corner to corner, hemisphere to horizon. Mood like a sieve, catching drops of sunlight, never to reach a downcast eye. That craggy cliff face, its knowing smirk. The treetops high like raised ...

“You’re waiting on summer and I’m waiting on you.” That was last June. I foraged some flowers yesterday, I’ve been trying to be independent this summer. I bought a book full of plants and their uses, and I keep picking flowers, but I haven’t eaten any of them yet. They keep sitting around, drooping...

toil to reconcile ion with time. I was a bad walker, made sense of life by devouring endless feasts of words. Since the age of three I have breathed through dance. My mother suckled me on her music; It was there I learned to dream, to want. Oh renaissance woman, what do you want? Trick questio...

My friends were talking at school, debating an assignment for some class or the other. Their teacher told them to write a metaphor for love, or so I gathered. “Love is like a stone,” one said. “Beautiful, but it can be painful as well.” Love is like a train,” quipped another, “coming and then going....

I feel you smile against my skin. I hear it in your voice. The smooth milk in my coffee, foamy and only about an ounce or two, no sugar, but a dash of cinnamon. It tastes like being known. He loves like a list of habits. He loves like intuition- there, whether you see it or not...

I always thought sunsets were beautiful. Cliché, I know, but I think you’d have to be a special breed of mad not to agree. But it’s funny to me— if you’d ask me a universal fear, I might say change. I might say loss. I might say death. Maybe I’d say premature endings and things undone or...