Sometimes I am caught between poetry and prose, like two lovers I can’t decide between. Prose says to me, let’s build something long and lasting. Poetry takes me by the hand, and whispers, come with me, let’s get lost for awhile.
We number our days and divide our seasons. We endlessly define what it is to be in love. When in truth, spring blurs into summer and always has, long before that line was ever drawn.
Most people want to save the entire world. It’s a lovely thought, and I’m not saying it’s not a noble pursuit-but it’s impossible to save everyone. You just have to pick your little corner of the world and focus your energy there. That’s the only way you will ever make a difference.
And you said ecstasy was a storm cloud, just before the rain would burst into the night sky, like a thousand aquatic stars-and not one single moment before.
