Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
Lights on the dashboard spell out “You still can’t kiss me”
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
my father holds his favorite drink
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…