Like a double helix, our reassemble is at each rung.

Our bodies are left less lively as our souls race around their own dimensions.
In this dimension I spend my time living almost neurotically, waiting for my soul and I to cross paths.
His soul dances with mine amongst the dimensions, they part, they reconvene.
They skip across universes alone, and united.
Like a double helix, our reassemble is at each rung.


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 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 really thought I knew so much before I knew you. I thought that I had loved, been in love, had it and lost it. I had believed that I was on some sort of higher ground. Before I met you I thought I knew what this was. What you and I are. I didn’t I was wrong. I’ve bitten my tongue to say ‘I love you’ aloud. I could say it all day but it’s not enough. It’s not enough words, it’s not enough something. Saying ‘I love you’ feels robbed, short, unfinished. It’s not enough to remotely begin to cover it. Not enough words created could communicate it. I could spend a millennium trying to describe it. But you’re the only person I don’t have to describe it to, and that’s exactly it. I’ve come to terms with the fact that there might never be a day where I can look at you and be able to say how I feel about you. I’ve accepted that there is beauty in the blank pages I find myself scrambling to fill. There is something about being left speechless that dignifies our lives together. I could tell you I love you, and it would be true. But it’s not enough. Leaving me speechless is all I could ever ask for


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.

last thoughts


inspired by “last thoughts on woody guthrie,” a poem much greater than this, written by bob dylan.


when you’re lost in your love of the earth and it’s pieces, when you’re fired up and freed for a few different reasons,

when you’re breathing and living in all kinds of places, when you’re falling in love with all kinds of faces,

when you’re kicked to the ground but you brace your own fall, when you’re lost in a canyon but someone answers your call,

when in the midst of a desert, you meet a butterfly, when you’re soul is so light your mind and body could cry,

when you’re singing and dancing by the side of a fire, when you’re dreams start to sprout higher and higher,

when the people you meet become the people you love, when the people you lose give you signs from above,

when the things you believe…

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Love’s Not Enough Words

I only feel alone when I am with him. I’ve thought I have loved before him but I haven’t. I thought I was out of firsts but I wasn’t. Day to day I had lived my life feeling as if I knew and had experienced love in its purest form. I was wrong. I thought I knew the feeling. I thought before that I was on some higher ground of knowledge as if I knew what love was as if I had found it, had it, lost it; I didn’t. I am sure people live their entire lives having felt what I felt. Thinking that it was the highest feeling of affection, and they are wrong. I guess allowing everyone to believe that they have found their soulmate allows for happier, simpler lives. I guess I could have just as easily lived my life thinking I had found ‘love’. Thinking I had found what everyone is supposedly looking for, what everyone thinks they find, but I would have felt a small sense of disappointment the majority of them are left with. I guess I would have spent my whole life thinking that I had found my soulmate, spent my life with him thinking that everything I went through was completely normal. And I would have been wrong. I would have never felt what this is.

I only feel alone when I am with him. In his absence I do not feel present. Upon our reassemble I am reassembled. I am alone with him there, beside me. With distance I feel impatient. His proximity begets not necessarily my happiness but my wholesomeness. What if I had never known. I thought I knew so much until I realized that I didn’t. I thought I knew and understood what my soul needed, up until I realized I didn’t. My life is not consumed by him but fulfilled by him. It’s something words aren’t enough for. I could tell him I love him, it would be true; but it’s not enough.

We Are Moments

we are magic.
we are moments.
we are dreams and
we are memories.
we are everything.
and in the depths
we swim deeper to
discover that we
are not born whole
so we cannot be
broken. we are born
searching, searching
for the other piece
that other person
to guide us home.
R.M. Drake