h a n d w r i t i n g .: Archive

Jun 30th

...

The floor looked like the surface of a slumbering lake, all glass and the comforting illusion of solid ground. Smoke and mirrors. She stepped without trepidation. Sink or swim, so they say. And to her surprise, it held beneath her weight.

May 12th

acquiescence:

and the saltwater lapped at her toes tiny digits, in careful juxtaposition to the grandeur of it all one, two, three one, two, three one. two. three. and she waltzed on the water, like jesus. barefoot, in a taffeta dress a siren, so it seems sailor, sailor swim to me. sailor, sailor sink to me. a dirge being sung in minor key lamenting a life, resolutely born into the sea.

May 7th

on contemplating a dogwood:

spectral arms draped in tangled grey tendrils fingers, wrists adorned with the palest of petals outstretched aching for the sun like a girl yearning for a lover always out of reach and for a moment, just her beauty becomes her. as the light rains down on her dappled skin one day she will awake the palest of petals blanketing her floor fingers, wrists barren radiant, no more seasons passed the...

Mar 14th

“Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters.”

– Ernest Hemingway

Jan 10th