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withering heights.

It’s funny how

A skeleton that was once so

so strong.

With chastity

and colour,

could wither into

a rack of 




And all I can

do is







I crept under your covers

Buried by the Argentina humidity.

I was sticky

And you were cool.


Like the first sip of

Malbec under a 37 degree


I was calloused

And you were smooth.


Like the splash of an eloquent espresso

Against a tired tongue.

You were a feast of vibrancy,

And I floated and


 ever so buoyantly on your coattails.




gone awry

"You chose to leave," she says. Bitterness spits from each tear. Menus are sprawled out on the table. Untouched coffees and creamers opened and scattered.

I feel hot under a fluorescent light of accusation and public interrogation.

"It’s not our fault you don’t have time for anything. You’re stressed, okay fine. But you wanted this."

Her face becomes increasingly askew, hands running through long brown hair with the subconscious habit of nervous movement. 

My own tears are doused in alcohol, cloudy and left without names or reason. I choke down what I could say. 

Fingers clamp down on my windpipe-the steel restriction of anxiety pricking down the base of my spine. 

I did want it. Just not this. 




tis the breakup season

I write a lot about love because that’s what we know. And whether we know it because our hearts have been broken once, twice, or three times we all have, or all will be there. My best friend is going to the most tumultuous break-up I have witnessed in a while and when you become so closely intertwined with a friends’ life their experience becomes your own. Having been destroyed last summer, I’ve stepped up to the plate with my words of advice ready at the tongue because “I’ve been there,” and “I got through it.” And it’s true…as Conor Oberst wrote in Cassadaga “I walked into the winter and came out the other side.” I am here, having been through another relationship since, and developed a whole new different kind of love, and viewing relationships in a brand new way. But as I walk further into friends relationship woes, and stories of breakups, and cheating, and the massacre of hearts all around me-I feel that every single word I have to offer is the shell of that I really want to say. That the love I have spent so many years pining after has become further tainted by my own and others experiences of disdain. My views are becoming increasingly slanted into a cynical single bitter chick that hasn’t heard of a good guy (or encountered one) in well, ever. And so after consoling my best friend for days on end after yet another asshole dude has struck again, I have to untie the knots in my stomach because words that I preach and theories that I believe and strive for, are beginning to float into the cynical basket of “the things that never ended up being true,” forcing me to consider the retirement of all things yellowbird.





Each new moment in an affair of secrecy builds into something tangible at every second. And even if there has been a clause for separation, and words of endings, and days of silence-we become not only ourselves but the experience. It resonates deep in your lungs, and creeps slowly into our bones-each rib breaths in and out with the pungency of an enigma. Friendship is the bare bones of a body that has been plucked of a transpired romance. And in the accusation of sunlight it is the most pure. Each wrinkle of past nights in a strange bed that became a familiar spot, and sweat that formed in between skin pressed together into one shape, and explosive sex that went from lustful stimulation into a craved routine. As we turn into pumpkins, and the magnitude of those brown eyes are pulled away with no effort-I sulk back into the expired daylight. Out from the comfort of the unseen-dragging with me the increased weight of a severing uncertainty. Once more I’m left as the bare bones of a relationship left quiet until spoken.