“Your darkness does not scare me, nor will I run from you; like a star, I’m falling for the phases of your moon.”

The stars are where we came from. They orchestrated our return to the place we can always come home: our ancient, timeless love.

You are what it feels like to watch the final silvers of sun fall and die into the silver ocean; tangerine sky giving way to moon-glow and starlight.

We weren’t written in the stars; all that glitters wasn’t ours.

Last night, I sent you home with a kiss and a promise. I hope you still believe in roses.

Our story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.

Standing in your power scares a lot of people. You become something formidable, intimating, and aspirational all at once.

Poetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.

Do I look as good as I remember, Looking back at you from over my shoulder, smug as the devil?

The day I made peace with my pain was the day I was born again.

“Ashes”, we once thought, but the embers in our eyes might have bought us time.

How do you sleep soundly, knowing you traded roses for weeds?

I am a phoenix living in a culture of vultures.

You’re preserved inside of me; cadaversque. I both acquiesce and atrophy because of it.

As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.

Love me until oblivion paints your portraits on my eyelids, sinking by eons into distance that never separates us.

I don’t know how to put my love down, or to keep holding too much of it.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.

Find me someone who has gone to the darkest parts of their own character where they were so close to their own self-destruction and found a way to get up and out of it, and I will bow on my knees to you. You’re my teacher.

A bad word from a colleague can darken a whole day. We need encouragement a lot more than we admit, even to ourselves.

My breaths give out the stench of dark black pain, that rooted from the poison you gifted me with love.

I seek out the good but keep my senses on alert but then there are moments when all I want to do is drown in the sea.

Darkness attracts me, it’s the only time, I can cry in peace.

The problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color-line, — the relation of the darker to the lighter races of men in Asia and Africa, in America and the islands of the sea.