The Missing Pieces

Your souls reach out to one another, leaving just your physical selves entangled, taking with them the rest of the world’s distress. The moment you meet you realize the importance of each other, as if you’ve transferred a missing part of one another between yourselves, masked by a handshake. Together the world around evaporates, your sense of importance of responsibilities dissipates as your only concerns become breathing each other’s air, sharing each other’s space, being inspired by one another’s being. Your souls share secrets, they crave each other, you crave each other. You are linked by more than one sense of life. In your instances together there is nothing but moments. In your intervals apart there is nothing but impatience. Upon your reassemble you feel once more completed, as if your unity brought back your missing pieces.


Our Souls Manufacture Melodies

Our souls were gears clicking alongside each other all this time, they manufacture melodies at their reconvene. We do more than survive beside one another, we create together. We develop new habits as we fall deeper into one another, as we become more devoured by each other’s being. As if our unity is a tradition we rehearse every encounter, existing effortlessly without any sense of urgency, completely uninhibited. 


i could live an eternity beneath your breath, co-existing there, breathing in each other’s air while being consumed with one another’s existence. I could thrive there, or die more wholesomely having been there. I’ve come to terms with the fact that there might be days where I will look at you and not be able to communicate what you mean to me. I have accepted that there is beauty in the blank pages I scramble to fill. I could tell you I love you, and it would be true, but it’s not enough.

The Kind You Never See Anymore

I’m swaying on this old rickety bench. The kind you never see anymore. Propped up with upside down, v shaped bars. Held together by a small chain, the bench perhaps made by an old picket fence. The boards are connected by staples, not screws. It’s placed just 8 feet from a cliff that ends on the face of the Hudson River, at 8:30am it flows north. The bench isn’t in any shade. But the breeze from the river is as present as the birds and creatures arising for the day. I miss the simplicity of having time. Having time to rock on an old bench, having time to read a good book, having time to sit alone and appreciate everything around me. It’s a place I could see myself coming to every morning after a good nights sleep, to read and have coffee. To sit and see the sunrise, to sit with you whether it be in silence or amongst chatter. Behind me lies small cabins, a cluster of old, white matching cabins, one of which I resided in last night. There’s an abandoned pool behind me, with a hose plummeting water into its depths. But before me is the Hudson. An island between my shore and the next. The sun rising from a point that must be directly in front of me, but the breeze levels the blaze that is presses against my skin. I can sit here, swaying, imagining you beside me. Maybe more so wishing than imagining. On a bench perfectly made for two. Portraying the most beautiful view the Hudson has to offer. It’s moments like these that make me miss you most. Moments I wish I could share with you. Sights I want you to see. Sounds I want you to hear. Like the muted creaking of this old, perfect bench. The kind you never see anymore. 

storm castle


coors and cars and cigarettes, whiskey, gin and unpaid debts. ‘buncha old people standing in line, wrinkles on faces just passing the time.

i spent some time with the moon just now, i asked for her a tip–she said “i’ll be right down.” she told me a story about her affair with the sun, but she broke his heart so he’s back on the run.

now he won’t even let her get close, so she tends to the ocean while he dreams of her ghost. “what does this mean,” i asked, “what are you saying?” she said “don’t ever fall in love ‘less you’re plannin’ on payin’.”

she rose back to her place and i sank into mine; i found some dirt that i liked and took a pull off the wine. i shoulda’ known better than to talk to the moon; she’s always rising too late and setting too son.

i would call…

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I have her things in a box. A box I moved from what was her home to mine. I picked out trinkets that reminded me of her and I put them all together in a little box. Now they are my things of hers. It’s my box now, but the objects within it will never be mine. The objects inside are no longer in their place belonging to her. They’re in a box in my closet and I can’t take them out. I can’t scatter them among my possessions, around my house as if they had no prior home. They did. And now they’re just in a box. Just like she is. She is in a box, and all her things are in boxes. Her home is now just a house, just a big box filled with smaller boxes. Her home was once the rendezvous place of our family, our lighthouse, our sanctuary. And she had always been our shepherd, our ringleader, our luminary. She had so much love to give and she gave it all. She created our refuge, she created my family. She created inspiration. And now all that she has created is packed away in boxes, just like her.