What's the word for light
that stays in your center
like the window you see
when you're walking in winter
on a dark street
and you look for it,
lighting up the night?
I try and grab it and it slips
away from me
like a murmuration
of bees humming silently,
happy to be seen
and free.
of me, little by little little bites sinking into old wounds every time and I let her because just like the trees open their hands to the snow I do love the idea of dying slowly loved and afraid and b
is write little books, is what I heard the husband of a friend say once. that's all she does, all day he said and she laughed and I nodded and felt my shoulders sink and remembered her laugh as I sat
Bring in your dead, she said. So I dragged my lovers out of the warm cocoons of my sheets out through my crooked legs and my sweat-soaked arms and watched as they clutched not at the bed, but at their