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Let us.

Let us be whole.
Racing across a continent like the vast vacuum of seafoam.
Let us be whole.
I will sink into your heart, floating elegantly like a child in the Dead Sea. Feeling no weight other than than the decompression of salty relief.
Let us be whole.
So that I can dive into the body of water made by bed sheets and body language.
Let us be whole.
So that you can trace our absence with your fingers across the gorges of my two toned foreign skin.
Let us be whole.
Let me kiss you like the first time I tasted red wine.
Let me love you like the first spring bite of a ripe fig.
Let me tumble into your body as if I was a graceful tide. Let us be whole.




Words sent to me from my boyfriend on a night apart.

On the quiet fluorescent train ride home alone
The mere hours we spend apart are better described as days
The infatuation has blinded and blurred all sense of time
It isn’t that I haven’t seen you in forever
It’s that any time apart equates to an eternity
Time without you is simply a layover
The waiting for the next stop on this relationship itinerary
The people and places and time passing all blend into a wet cement mixture that we kick our feet out of when we reunite and reignite
This incredible thing we call love.




this time it’s different

I should be doing my homework,

I should be changing over my laundry.

I should be doing my homework.

But it’s a Friday night, and I am not waiting tables,

instead I am sitting in a barely lit room, writing another trail of words about you.

And I can’t stop thinking about yesterday.

Sitting on my bed, the afternoon overcast lighting us up with a drowsy need for romance.

We kissed for as long as our lips would let us.

You were like the safest, warmest, hammock.  

I should be doing my homework.

But I am stuck on last night. Crooked in a bath tub with you. I am vulnerable, you are happy. 

The bathroom is laced with smoke, and you look impossibly and vivaciously content. The world becomes a kaleidoscope of everything you are. Everything I am. A mosaic of five months into a firework of the most simple kind of utopia. 

And I can’t believe that you are mine. 

We are naked in the bath on a Thursday night, we don’t talk much, and there is no where else we could dream of being. I don’t remember ever being this serene. 

This is what love is like with you.

I should be doing my homework. 

This time it’s different. I could write it in all my poems, I could tell all my girlfriends, speaking too fast so that I don’t miss the story about the time you brought me flowers when I was sick.

"But this time it’s different."

The way you look at me scares me. There is so much love in those caramel eyes they could gulp me up. 

I am in awe that someone could love me enough to have it radiate from their eyeballs. 

I wonder if you can tell that the way my stomach folds during sex gives me the worst kind of anxiety. 

I am in awe that after more beers than I’d probably like to know, you sway towards me with such adoration that I feel like my heart might burst out of my throat for you. 

This time it’s different. 

I am in awe that we are drunk on a Monday. My back is in your chest. We are not at our type of place and your arms laced around my ribcage feel like the womb. Your beard tastes like whiskey. You tell me you want to be with me for as long as we are this happy. You tell me you want to see the world with me. I believe you. 

This time it’s different. 

My kitchen feels cold every morning that we are not deciding how to make our eggs. 

Thank you for walking the dog last night.

This time it’s so different. 




bedtime Nirvana

Waking up to you feels like being held in the cocoon

of a gentle storm,

I sleep with such stimulated serenity. 

We dream like spinning tops, forever revolving

only stopping to breath when our eyes awake

like sail boats cruising through tranquil waters.

I look at you and I see so many stories.

I often wish that we could sail with such

ease forever. That the seas would never part

and the revolution of our cycle together would spin

until we were too dizzy to know differently.

I bit into you, even though you were forbidden.

The bites are endless, and the nectar of everything

that is you tastes like the Nirvana of contentment. 

Your arms, the cornucopia of nourishment, I float.

Across the stream of our muddy waters

we are buoyant in our divinity. 




Thing the about you is that you write me passages

from deep in the dungeons of your belly, that I can

never draw from your lips.

The truth about me is that this is not my first time at the rodeo.

I am the woman of all things about love.

 I am the woman of the world.

The woman of independence, and separate bills, and journals full of wanderlust and questions about sex and strength and if those are the things that weaken me.

But the truth is, there is nothing about you that isn’t poetry, and I could spend all day writing you into something beautiful,

but the truth is you already are.




There was a time

when I looked at you

and I saw two children playing in the sand,

wrinkled hands conjoined,

I saw pregnant bellies

and a beach wedding,

I saw yellowed photo albums

and endless days in bed.

But on that highway with you,

illuminated only by tiny red lights,

and the weight of your tears falling

heavily on my arm,

I watched every vision I had of us, fade into the

exit signs. 

We passed them by, one by one.

And I knew.

We were never cryptic and we were never scarce.

But we were bold and we were beautiful,

And our love was as sturdy as mountains,

until I decided that instead, I needed travel across them.




white light.

Tonight you sent me all your secrets.

The one’s I have been digging for.

They sit like dirt under my nails,

but I am not eager to wash my hands.

I let them fester.

When I look at you, I see so many things

that the last few pages of my journal

have been eaten up with every

adjective about the way you

run your hands down my broken body.

I know that you like your coffee black, and that

my ravenous energy scares you.

Or maybe that it fills you.

And maybe you like that.

I know that I am always on the tip of your tongue,

but in the vessel of your thoughts

and that you might think I am crazy.

Sometimes I am surprised

that after all the kerosene I’ve drank

in the name of love, that I am still alive.

But you are the like the white light, that

they talk about.

The one that reminds you that

the world is filled with tiny, beautiful, people.

Tiny beautiful moments.

Caramel eyes and unanswered questions.

Red wine in bed and mid day naps.

And all of those tiny, beautiful moments, have let the broken record

that is my heart off the hook.

And it is nice to know that my heart, whatever hook it is on, only belongs to me.

So now I know, that when they talk about the white light, what they really talk about is you.




My life in this past month has been a whirlwind

of change and transformation and I am both weary

and strong.

I feel as if I could take on the world better than any

warrior ever could. And yet my pallet of multi-facetted emotions 

are becoming swirled into one colour that is grim and unidentifiable. 

I am finding absolute serenity in solitude and the idea and fantasy of stepping on a plane entirely alone.

And yet I am still yearning for men. And I am hungry for love. I am thirsty for lips on my neck and hands on my chest. And that thirst seems to be unquenchable. Unattainable. 


Why do I find myself at the utmost peace when I am being coddled by the pheromones of a man?

It is not malicious and it is certainly not without contempt or care, it is  my inner instinct that pours out of me and possesses my heart and mind as one. 




It is not and it is.

I used to think life is too short to not tell the people you love that you love them.
But maybe that word is tossed around like hockey pucks. Always crashing into walls in the end.

So I decided not to tell you that I love you, but to tell you that you are bigger than the Great Lakes. You are the first drop of water in the morning. The first trip alone on a plane. You are the most persistent hangover, and the most satisfying nap. You are déjà vu. You are the surprise post card in the mail, and neatly wrapped presents. Both open and mysterious. You are chapped lips and clean hair.

I have had my heart broken approximately five times. And I’ve been in love about six. And throughout my travels of being beaten and bruised I have learned one thing:

Love is not a feeling. Love is not way of living and it is not a state of mind.

It is every body of water that soaks up the whole world. And I am just a tug boat on the Pacific.




the haunting pt. 3

You say that you still remember

every inch of our last moments.

But you don’t know, that every

fibre of you lives in the corners of my


In the back of my throat.

In the nerves at the ends of my

forever trembling fingers.

And I don’t know if you

are able to sense my anguish,

but every memory of you

lives like bile in my stomach.

Sharp, and acidic, and persistent.

You are like the Livestrong bracelet on your wrist. 

Both pivotal and mysteriously untouched. 

And although you may be a skeleton

of what I knew and what I loved,

miles and miles

and worlds away,

I know that  I will always

be haunted by you. 




the ex x


You are a magnet.

Not the kind used in the scripts of rom coms.

But the kind that is both piercing and gravitational.

The kind of magnet that chokes the cords around my windpipe, stronger than any hands every could.

 The kind that pulls you swiftly towards light, before you realize it is only a shadow. 

Or a mirage.


I call myself a writer

but every time I try to plunge at the keyboard with my suffocating

agony, I drift off into a tornado of silence. 

And my hands, full of colour, become soft and dispondant like a runny yolk. 


I want you to know that I can get through a day (or maybe two) without a whisper of your name crawling through me.

I am better at being a alone.

And now, the light of your name on my phone only sends three shocks to my heart.

Not ten.

 I don’t like the weight that I’ve gained. But I can still feel your hands along the map of my hips, complaining that I’m too skinny.

Or that my hair is too red.

Or that I call too much.


And I wonder why the thought of you being here, an arms length from my sanity, is sending me into a coma of nausea. 

Because after all, I will always be worlds away from you. 

You and I are like Pluto and earth.

Orbiting around the sun, and never sharing the same warmth. 




weight gain.

I forgot what your words tasted like.

So I picked all my memories,

chopped them up and ate them.

One by one.

And I let their calories sit heavy 

like sandbags.

On my heart

and on my hips.




on being really distant.

Sometimes the potency of your love

comes flooding like a fire in a forest.

And I am set a blaze with the promise

in your dimples.

And sometimes I awake ridged

and worn, and I feel as if

the equator between us

is a figment of my

own desperate imagination.

And you are a sillouette that lives only

on my walls.

On my desk.

In my bones.

I remember the night we ate 

handfulls of pyschedelia and watched

my bathroom wall tell us how our lives were going to be.

My tile fortune teller.

I remember the days when we laid under the covers

like pretzals. Thighs, coffee and cream swirled together by

sweat. I ate you up like I had been fasting for months-chewing on your words like taffy.

They stuck to my teeth and I swallowed only the sweet, sugary, goodness.

You were a well that had the crispest, cleanest water. And I drank and drank and drank, and never was quenched. 

But now I have learned…..

You can’t curl up at night to a computer.

Or an equator.

Or an ocean.

And maybe, in order to seal

the gaps of countries, between me and my sanity, I still am feasting from

those days in bed.

Paralyzed by your magic. 




On our 15 months.

I feel as if

that he has become,

the pungent smell of misty asphalt

and the glare of afternoon sun between oak trees.

He has become the first

sip of coffee, Saturday night off work, and a fresh bar of soap.

He is perfectly worn in shoes, and a full fridge,

crisp sheets and rainstorms. 

He is the cat fish and I am the minnow. 




the haunting pt. 2

I awoke with you

once again,

gnawing away at the

knots of my nerves.

Miles and miles and worlds away

and you still continue

to haunt me stronger

than you ever have.