When I tell her that my late partner’s dying wish for me was to find another great love, she asks, without hesitation, why she should

lonely people always recognize each other as if they were from the same place sad people always know each other as if they kept the

its light cast a frightening blue over  fine print never proofread, a contract  up for renewal. Language long dead   revived by a crescent moon: You

In the back flap Of my billfold Three leaves, Three tufts of cypress Pressed, soft, One for us each, From that first taste Of wild,

You treaded in my life as a fragrant breeze kissing and crossing rustling leaves in a youthful spring, as soothing sunlight diving down through the

The sea kissed you and sent you to me To take you back to the smiles of my childhood I had nothing else to offer

That I once put my lips on the sun And my arms around the moon That in the burning that came of it And the

We met on a Saturday, the first time. Then the second, the third , Saturdays again, and then the library on a Friday. By then,

She told me one day I’d forget how to love her, the same way a kid will forget how to play cops and robbers, it’s

Everything’s been hell these past five months except those four days with you I don’t know what to do try to shake the romance out

a true love letter: no passion pressing against margins, nor metaphors gone crazy outside the predictability of a love poem, their name not signed with

                   —for Amy a store of tiny cabinets and tin stars and gold angels and hand-stitched handkerchiefs

CW: Description of attempted assault   Put out or get out what you said when I pushed you back, said no, told you I was

He looked at me today, A gaze that penetrated my body. And in that moment, as time stood still, somewhere in the galaxy, a star

That we can exist here in this dusky amber evening is a privilege I am not yet willing to put down; that I can watch