“If you think this one is about you- it probably is.”

When I am broken you don’t try to fix me. You listen. You are there. Thankyou.

We only see what we want to see. Usually it is ourselves. Look closer. Tilt the mirror so you can see more. Beyond self.

We say so much with our words unsaid. There is truth in the silence.

Holding on to something that has lost its magic, lost its mutual respect, hurts more. Elsa understood the assignment.

I’m exactly the same person. Well, except I’m not allowing dishonesty, selfishness, or negative energy to be a part of my life. And I’m noticing that I am truly happy.

Gazing at you across the table. How is it possible that everything has changed but love has grown stronger? True partnership is filling in each others blanks.

It takes time. We will get there.

New clothes won’t fill the void. Money won’t make you happy. Attention won’t heal past wounds. Things won’t finally make you feel better. If it’s broken its broken. These are distractions from the real work.

We can learn so much if we take the time to listen.

Every time I answer- I have to work harder to remember that I am happier with a wall between us. But knowing this – I still pick up.

Everything changed when I stopped putting myself last.

When you reach a point where you say I really don’t miss it. You have healed.

Of all the times I’ve said goodbye- It has been the hardest to let go knowing they aren’t gone. You just don’t know them anymore.

Sometimes forgiveness is off the table. When the hurt is real you can’t forget. But you can walk away. That’s healthy too.

When in doubt dance it out.

Every morning when I open my eyes, I feel possibility.

I want to write happy poems on new years. But grief doesn’t have timelines, and it refuses to let go of me.

I still write poems about you, when I know you never write about me.

I wrote many poems about her and held her so close to my heart that she did not even knew a place there.

If this was my last poem I’d dedicate it to myself.

Poems are a nice way of saying fuck you.

She was simple. Like a poem, and always dressed in sunshine.

No race can prosper till it learns that there is as much dignity in tilling a field as in writing a poem.

It’s funny how love fades, and they become more than a poem about yesterday.