There’s an art 
To letting go of something
You never fully held
Refilling the glass
That is your heart

Why do these thoughts
Always cut so deeply
They come in such vivid
Shades of sadness
I can barely breathe

There’s an art
To navigating 
These troubled straits
Letting go of past lives
And vanished friends

There’s art
In the way you choose
To love
And in the way you choose
...

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Friend, we drink together
talking at a wedding
lit blue and gold
familiar faces dance around us

Friend, secretly, I wonder
if you were to open up your essence
lift a pen to kiss the paper
to vent your heart aloud

Friend, I long to know
what your poetry would be
if you chose to write

Which desires peskily linger 
at the edges of your furrowed mind
which old flames still burn a fi...

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Poems are my photographs
my diary
my inner monologue
poems are my measurement
my record
the fingerprints of emotions
invisible no more
Poems are my expression
the sum of interactions
they show my working out
Poems are the breath
of lost lovers
against my neck
Poems are my kisses
for my family and my friends
the hugs I seldom give

And your poems...
your poems keep me company
a l...

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The way I write…
I brainstorm twenty titles
words or phrases
that sound good to me
that subconsciously
already feel like parts of me
then I refine them
and refine them
pile them up around my feet

And when I’m in the mood to write
I’ll either start writing
(with aim or aimlessly)
until I get stuck
then I grab a title
work it in the lock
release whatever’s hidden
(and it feels good...

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To know my fingerprints
on another’s heart
could stir them into art
a priceless gift, a magic

To know there is a poem
written about me
those words, more beautiful
than I could ever hope to be

From the caverns of passed time
there comes a sound
a constant, quiet, ring
when I choose to listen
always there
telling of another way of living

That the heart of an artist
a complexly c...

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I have been having these moments
waiting for trains
pouring kettles
folding sheets
opening a window

I have been having these little moments
flicking through old magazines
in the off-license
glancing up at windows
looking out across the city

When the magnitude of your potential
when all the things you said to me
when the poetry you quietly dedicated
when the soft touch of your deft...

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