I could love you for your words alone, but you're also blessed with a face to adore.

Thanks for brightening my day! (: 

Have you ever taken a creative writing class? You're writing is fantastic and I'm a real fan!

I’m currently in the creative writing BA/MA program at Penn State with a concentration in poetry, so yes. And thank you! (: 


It is raining. We—umbrellaless—
run from Minskoff Theatre to Penn Station
—your hand, through mine, pulls me.
It is December and it must be
the kind of rain that grips the hairs
on our arms and ices over—
but the only memory of the cold
I have is the chill, that fills me
when I realize I’ve forgotten.
How I must be constructing
this moment—my brilliant, ridiculous
outfit—violet stockings—your suede jacket.
It’s a still in my mind—this frame—
vivid, bright, but blurred 
and unmoving. The droplets hang there
in air around us, stunned.
The buildings are just lights—and glow—
and the rain—it’s like we’re running
in a shattered prism. I see us—somewhere
between the lit panels of a digital billboard
—thousands of pinpricks of blue
pixel light reflects in our eyes—they’re
too blue, too clear—and the
hundred-glass-windowed theatre—
with our reflection—too defined. I imagine
Times Square, not just from that moment,
but I’ve built it on many moments
and many visits—I feel the rain in a compilation
of other walks in other rains. My stockings—violet
—blue—indigo? All I have,
is this still—this one frame and
the knowledge that I will never know
the cold of that rain again—the hardness
of the concrete on my heels felt
through cheap boots—your rough hand.
All I have, is this image of us—
and this rain—suspended.


I unclasp the clip on the back
of my bikini beneath
a towel in the passenger-side seat
while you play acoustic songs off your
iPhone in Brielle, NJ.

The A/C is on through the side,
front, feet vents.
I am cold, but you need to stay
awake. Goose bumps form on my skin—
thousands of white, white plucked
feather stars
on my almost-tanned arms—
you paid $14 for sunscreen
on the boardwalk
to keep us from burning.

I pull my head through
the Bob Dylan crop top
you made fun of me for ordering
off Brandy Melville, after watching that film
with Christian Bale.

Earlier, I watched you wave-dive,
further and further out, until
you were lost in swimmers.

I am still wearing the damp
slightly sand-filled, tie-string bottoms,
as I shiver in and out of sleep,
cheek pressed against the sunned-on window.
You ask me to stay awake with you, and I do,
only as far as the Garden State Parkway.

Endlessly Becoming


You used to practice flipping a Queen
of Hearts between your fingertips
so it disappeared, appeared,


At the Huapalai ranch, facing
the West Rim of the Grand Canyon,
a magician had me write my name
on an Ace of Spades, 
before folding it into his shirt pocket, then
moments later, pulled my card
from a chest on the table,
unopened until then. 

Earlier that day, I laid on my stomach
and looked down the dusty colored lines
of the canyon walls. Layers
of purple, burgundy, burgundy-red,
red-orange—a sun setting down 6,000 feet.
It took 17 million years to form.


I will not say we are carved,
or eroded until something beautiful
is left. We do not have
17 million years. We are built in pieces—
206 bones in bodies that die
so young—blinks
in space-time.
I have never met anyone unbroken,
in one piece, unable to bend their
knees, elbows, spines.
I’ve never seen anyone become
perfectly beautiful.


We break each other, but then,
we can break ourselves, over and over,
layers of mixed sand-art color and glitter
and dirt: material for new selves, built
by heartbreak, daydream, a will to
forming, endlessly becoming. We are
not monuments. Maybe
water molecules in the Colorado River
that shape the permanent beautiful,
with all our ugly, all our broken,
all our impermanence—
we fade, brighten, lose ourselves
in emptiness, find new selves,
construct again—


I watched, mesmerized,
as the card went invisible,
and then back into sight
through your index
and middle fingers. You
smiled as it appeared, finally,
out of thin air.

Hiya Sydney. I was wondering if you ever provide any sort of critique on writing?

I’ll let you know what I like about something, if you show it to me. But I’m still learning a lot about poetry/writing each day, as well. (: 

typical warm weather selfies


To you I was a photograph—a photo-chemical reaction
recording the impression of light
on a silver-coated surface of atoms
that left you breathless, stunned.
I was always beautiful, drowned
in late afternoon light. Flat,
scrolled-through photos by the click of an arrow
on a Nikon D300S—
deleted the ugly, blurry, dark.
And you could see nothing but sunlight
behind my figure, without warmth,
nothing to squint your eyes against
or leave twinkling black Christmas lights
in the corner of your eyes.
White smile, smile, smile,
forever smile. Illuminated
pixel by pixel. When you held me,
it must’ve been like holding film—
a see-through outline of me. Shimmering,
smiling, held up to the sun to catch
reflections of clouds in my cheeks.
White-yellow-white light.
And if there was too much shadow, delete.


Although I know
“future” doesn’t exist, “past” doesn’t
exist, and if
I learned anything
from American literature it was never
to let a dream collect enough starlight
it blinds you.
But when you told me
what you had done with her,
I had already created a world
from stardust and blown eyelashes
fallen from our lids. I had
created cities of steel and reinforced concrete,
windowed skyscrapers, mirroring,
shining, streetlamps,
and so much light.

Still I remember, the drive home
sitting shotgun on the way back
from the Cinemark in Moosic,
it was snowing
but the windows were down. Shivering,
I watched the cool blue-green glow
from the dashboards
of the cars around us, bubbled in
Honda Civics and Ford Escapes,
and thinking we all
create our own Earths, worlds,

When we pull into my driveway,
you turn the key,
shut off the ignition, the headlights
disappear, and the dashboard dims
and there is nothing left
but starlight, blinking,

My house is empty and I go
from room to room, switching on light
after light.

This was something else. As I continue to explore the interspace, I'm astounded by the talent I continue to stumble across. Thanks so much for your words. And thanks so much for your diligence. Inspiration is always so close nowadays.

Thanks so much (: