sitting on the hill near pikes place in Seattle. Johnson and Cole. Missing sand and Byron. Dreaming up all we can do in march. Breathing in Seattle. Looking for stories. Ever so many.

"you tell a story, you open a door. people walk through and find their own lives"

Dorothy Allison

Hull, Dana. "Dorothy Allison, Rebel Belle; A 'Southern Writer' Sheds Labels and Finds Her Own Voice." The Washington Post. 24 November 2014. Print.

lost my words

thank you for your love.

an old piece found again

My optimism broke.
There’s a vague memory here in my hand
of feeling it give way under my feet,
cracking and snapping
shooting into a lovely scatter pattern
that I didn't even appreciate.
Not even enough to remember where
it splayed out on the path
and into the grass.

what ran through my mind that day was you

We slept until we were rested, ate until we were full, and walked quietly down the street, tossing words into each others' palms as they blazed ahead, comfortable at their faster pace.

The air was washed clean by the rain and thoroughly scrubbed. Bright reds and deep oranges and crystal blue and grey shone from the buildings, sharp and pure. That day I felt so strongly the joy of having you standing right beside me, blood pumping through your body.

Onto the J from the K to Chambers to walk the Brooklyn Bridge. You walked it for me and I thought you wanted to be anywhere else until we reached the other side and you were sitting in the pleather red booth smiling, my scarf still wrapped around your neck just where I wanted it, the green far more beautiful next to your flushed fresh cheeks.

And oh the wind and sharp burning in our knuckles--familiar to me and harsh to you. I knew I could breath out there on the bridge where the wind would shove oxygen down my throat even when I couldn't open my lungs wide enough.

I never drew the bridge. It was full in my face and wonderful cold. Instead I watched you and the wires and ran my fingertips along the frozen rough granite of the arches. 

I can still feel it there under my hands. I can still see your hair wrapped around your neck by the wind and I would rather that than a drawing. 

And oh look at the familiar signs, sweet friend, of our for-this-moment home coming towards us and oh the joy that shot through me when you smiled there on the subway platform, looking side to side afraid that you would be caught happy. So different next to the pain that had settled over you, the pain I felt and tried to eat but then it only grew. The cigarettes you hated but loved because it was something to do. A glass-strewn barrier for you; a desperation I knew needn't be, but which I didn't know how to replace.  In that booth I saw the same face that flared up in the match light, both your eyes alive, penciled in under your eyebrows.

I tried to capture the sunset after I captured you. It was so empty and ugly in comparison that I deleted all the photos.

new york city

FRIDAY

Only Jesus knew what was coming // johnson

Long drives need music and books // byron

And that’s when I understood Watsky // sand
We settled into each other’s space // cole

SATURDAY

Blonde boys make the best drivers // johnson

I left my headphones in Virginia // sand

The anger was for your protection // cole

God got us to our doorstep // byron

SUNDAY

Wow, so transubstantiation really is important // byron

His earnest belief made him lie // johnson

Underdressed in the presence of royalty // sand

We didn’t turn on the TV // cole

MONDAY

Giddy sick broke and too happy // cole

I prefer people watching to shopping // byron

Lost among a sea of words // sand

Everyone's looking but no one sees // johnson

TUESDAY

Road-trips and remembrances help make stories // byron

I gave him cigarettes, not money // sand

Her words unlocked both of them // cole

Ten year anticipation made me choke // johnson

WEDNESDAY

I was a time traveler’s tourist // sand

Snow covered all my past sins // johnson

Your nostalgia is greater than mine // byron

Your fall took me with you // cole

THURSDAY

Cold weather, warm strangers, good friends // byron

Standing alone among millions, he cried // johnson

All the words melted away today // cole

Take some of my body heat // sand

FRIDAY

Subway windows are haunted by faces // cole

His plane ticket was his escape // sand

Walk a mile, drive five hundred // byron

Saying "heading home" is a lie // johnson

SATURDAY

We didn’t leave Sand at McDonalds // johnson

“I love you.” “You’re stupid too.” // sand

I was awake for 22 hours // byron

I realized your floor was home // cole

for sand

can't handle.

gardner on setting

“Any given character may happen to be found, of course, in any setting; but a good writer chooses the setting which makes character and situation clear. (I do not mean that a character ought to be discovered in the setting that best reveals him. A man of the mountains may be found in an automat; but if the man’s nature is to be clear to the reader, the mountains must somehow be implied...)”

Gardner, John. On Moral Fiction. New York: Basic Books, 1978. 119. Print.

"He took a long time to believe them because he wanted to believe them."

Wise Blood, Flannery O'connor