We make our own traditions in this life;
none of them are set in stone,
but if we’re lucky
they become us,
they cradle us just like a home.
We build our lives around these moments,
creating something out of none,
and if we’re lucky
we will find
the other half that makes us one.

We make our own traditions in this life,
and I thought one day you would be mine,
but nothing’s set in stone –
sometimes the stars just don’t align.
I built my life around those moments,
the ones I thought we’d never lose,
but sometimes we can’t have it all
and it was me I had to choose.
Maybe one day we will have a home
and once again you’ll cradle me,
but I know that nothing’s set in stone
and what will be, will be.


We kissed in a planetarium

You know what stars are made of
and why they die before they reach our eyes.
You know how thousands of years
have created rocks of every shape and size.
Nothing scientific surprises you –
it is cut and dry,
black and white,
and I thought you might
one day feel that way about us,
but you didn’t trust
the gray,
the back and forth,
the up and down,
and it seems I was right all along:
our demise never made a sound.


Crack (*April writing prompt*)

It started as a crack,
a tiny fissure gone unnoticed.
You tell yourself it couldn’t be helped,
it is the natural order of things,
but this is not a well-constructed lie.
There was a fault line, always,
born of building a foundation
on broken ground.
You are a geologist,
and you should have known better.
You let the elements in but
shut her out,
and now she has evaporated like
a fine morning mist.

You are a geologist,
and now you are alone,
standing tall and holding nothing but
scorched earth.


Restless (*April writing prompt*)

I am restless.
My arms long to reach
for stars I cannot grasp,
for shadows that cannot be held.

I am restless.
My eyes yearn to search
for painted morning skies,
for the endless cycle of new beginnings.

I am restless.
My legs ache to carry me
to faraway places,
to the warmest ocean waters.

I am restless
in a way I’ve never known,
in a way I just can’t pinpoint.
Without destination,
I carry myself
away from you,
away from us,
to lands unnamed and
dreams unspoken.



Radio silence

I have conversations with you
in my head:
all of the things that won’t be said.
I am clear and concise and
you wouldn’t think twice
that I mean every word,
but even if you heard
what I’m trying to say
we both know the way
this would end,
and that’s why I no longer send
texts, emails, anything at all.
You won’t call,
you won’t show up:

enough is enough.




Some days it is negligible,
this void you left for me to fill.
Other times
it is a roaring rush inside my mind,
a dull ache inside my chest,
the splitting off from someone
who knew me not at all, but
still the best.

In the quiet spaces,
your voice fills my head:
memories of words we spoke,
and all the things we never said.

Who I am without you now
is still the same but
not quite right.
I’ve come to see
that you stole pieces of
who I’ve been for all my life.

Holidays will come and go,
and now one more birthday too.
Twenty-seven years and yet
I still remember you
when you were six,
when you were ten,
and all the years from then to now
might almost fill the void in me,
but I will always wonder who
at twenty-seven you would be.