putting poems in a little booklet for my future site. 

One day I’ll get good at this and people will come from far and wide to see my awesome pdfs. 

This is the story of the ocean that sank into itself. 

It drank itself dry and died. 

You told me you wanted to explore the world, 

So, I wore a map as a dress. 

I don’t want the passion of the moon setting,
Instead, I ask you to hold my hand through the sunrise.
To learn, sunrise through sunrise, how our hands change in formation of each other.
I don’t want to write metaphors of our years together, because we won’t need to.

he said I forgot something, 

then leaned his head through the rolled down window. 

I want to write poems again, 

or, at the very least, words strung together in balance-

it’s asymmetrical. 

This is not some broken-hearted-tear-stained message. 

This is chemical. 

The dust is all that is left here. 

It isn’t ethical.

Little children run around with synthetic feathers, 

pretending, if they clean the house by midnight

some godmother will come and glam them up. 

noon strikes and asthma’s already crept in, 

drowning within the burial taking place in the depths of their throat. 

"We are bound to each other- still in a way", she whispered,

"By meeting you,  I’ve started upon a path I will live for the rest of my life.” 

He turned before he shut the door, “but how influential will I prove to be?”

just like that their eyes never found rest in each others’ again. 

Let’s go back and touch the sand, 

that sand that felt like it was on the beach of my rib cage- 

trapped in confines of bone and flesh, but learning to grow and flow through the cracks. 

I’ll never forget that dirt, that felt like sand.