I left the city this weekend. I left the city and let the grass curl between my toes and the bugs I'm desperately allergic to crawl across my thighs and dipped my sun-starved skin into a pool that was too cold and full of leaves and felt like heaven.

My heart was quiet there but my mind was racing, sprinting, relentlessly asking:

"isn't this better?"

I came back to Brooklyn and looked around. I felt myself tethered by the memories we've made here. I felt the lives that have yet to be conceived stirring inside me.

I asked them:

"my loves, where will we go?"

I listened. 

I sat across from one of the loves of my life at an empty restaurant and drank wine. I remembered that heartstrings are lengthy and resilient. 

I came home to you and curled my body against yours, our hearts full and quiet

and realized home will travel with us, wherever we go.



a funny thing.


I've always kept journals: stories mixed in with class notes and half finished monologues, pretty quotes from much loved novels, films to see and plays to write. When I look back on them, though, searching for soultruths and inspiration, trying to remember what those years felt like, I find pages and pages and pages of yearning, of unrequited crushes, of the way ___'s hair stood up perfectly, or ___'s nose ring and celery green eyes, how this must, this must, this must be love. 

It wasn't until I found love that I started looking around

taking up space


beginning to see.


when you want, it's a wish,

when you know, it's a song.