“I miss you. By which I mean I’m jealous of the soil that gets to hold your bones.”

She lost herself, a little, in that darkness but returned with stars beneath her skin.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s just that I don’t want to.

These days my bones are shifting, trembled things. I am more earthquake than anything.

Love is a child with a gun in her hand.

I don’t know if you are the water or light. Only that you can flood a room.

You taught me to believe in love and then showed me exactly why I shouldn’t.

And again my mind runs to you in the way that rivers can’t help but return to the salt.

There are pieces of you in all the things you have loved. This is how we live forever.

I have never known what happiness really means, but I’m sure it sounds a lot like your name.

Everything I know of love is told in the bruises we left on each other.

I’m sorry for being this hard to love.

I know you will take the last of me and I will love you anyway.

I am a child of autumn: At home amongst things that only know of falling.

I knew I loved you before I understood what that meant.

All I really know is whatever the cost you’re worth it.

I spent a lifetime building shrine to things that can’t love me back. (music, poetry, you)