— (in my sleep I dreamed this poem) Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift. – The Uses of Sorrow, Mary Oliver

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“I hate your stupid face.” “It can’t be that stupid,” he answers, “it likes your face.”

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Lieux de memoire

That moment when you finally cave and go on a date with this boyishly handsome French nomad;  he is in town only for a week. He speaks six languages and is currently learning his seventh. His appetite for adventure rivals your own. You agree to meet for lunch, it turns into dinner, then becomes a night […]

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Darkness and Space

“I’m walking through the night between two villages; over the fields, no lights, only stars.” C tells me. One day, you will walk between two villages in the company of stars whose light has traveled hundreds of years across galaxies to reach you; to bear witness as you in turn reach for another hand – […]

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Verrücktheit

It is four in the morning, and we are going nowhere fast. I want to curl myself around him and fill in all the empty spaces that make him feel alone. But I won’t, simply because to do so would be irresponsible.

I can no longer be irresponsible.

I feel his gaze on me, so I turn to receive it. His eyes, blue in the daylight, are now grey in the cover of the night; they look at me with a precision, they are deliberate, sure, and demanding.

He demands of me everything that I am not.

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Déjà Vu

They say we spend the rest of our lives falling for our first love. She becomes the poem you write over and over. He becomes the portrait you can’t stop painting. She is every love song. He is every face in the crowd. You find her in every shadow, him in every sunset. They come to exist in […]

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Transit

One day, you are – by some fluke – early for your flight. You have checked in online, packed your signature leather weekender [properly this time], and still have 3 hours to kill at the airport. Being a creature of habit, you return to old haunts; you grab a chai latte and head for the bookshop. […]

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070514

“You are,” he said, his voice wavering in hesitation, “the kind of girl people read about in books.” “I think it helps to know which type of book you are referring to.” I laughed. “The kind I like.” he replied. “The maddening kind; the one that you must write about.”

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