traveling.

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.

on aggressive repeat.

Sometimes art really sparkles. This. Is. The. Real. Deal. 

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

 noticing

beginning to see.

when you want, it's a wish,

when you know, it's a song.

“We always underestimated our own participation in magic. That is, we thought of magic as something that existed with or without us. But that’s not true. Things are not magical because they’ve been conjured by some outside force. they are magical because we create them, and then deem them so.””

— David Levithan, "Two Boys Kissing"