there’s something strangely


about the deep roll of thunder


when you’re inside.

i think they call it the sublime.


i do not find inspiration

in the way they can preach to me.

but if i see them on that elevated place, the hill past the battleground they’ve conquered. the story they are able to tell because of it.

that makes me look up.

(i’m inspired by their life’s story // it was never about the advice they could give.)

old friendship

is one of those

beautiful, laughter inducing



it once was new too.


sweat, er.. weather

would this sweater be too much?

it’s just to take advantage of the cold to

wear something

i can stretch out in / snuggle into. even if i keep the fan on like

a mountain breeze.

i miss… / that

we try to talk without really saying

much of anything, we talk around

things, even though

(there is so much) i want to… (express). we try not to since

i think, someone once told us

there is a line here. they told us

it looks like a tripwire. we never checked,

why is that line here? it looks like a puppet


let me put on my sweater.


she wasn’t there

yet, but

that she could even be on this

journey was a privilege

in and of itself, she wished

she could pull that

perspective out of her pocket

please for the times she just wanted

to sleep | in the forest | in the hellish dark


she knew where she wanted to go

now from a strong and quiet

lake in her heart it wasn’t


at her anymore because she

had cupped her ear to it, allowed it to exist in the

openness she let herself climb her own


soul. it gave her stillness. she hoped for moonlight.


she sat

in the shallow water, pushed about

by the waves like

a bowling pin doll, heavy

on the bottom.

she didn’t like

how it made her feel

unstable. she wondered

if it was a



he rode by

shirtless on a motorcycle

cigarette in hand