she drinks from a cup of hearts a forgotten Valentine bought years before when our marriage was fresh she smiles through wine-soaked lips her eyes

Nobody writes love letters anymore. Romance has been forced to extremes to Prove itself. Grand public displays that Millions witness on tiny screens. Most of

I am the product of you mirrored in smashed glass Years of bad luck, were they to come or long past? Is my adolescent retribution

We drank coffee for dinner, I watched my body cave in. Her smile has never shone so bright. In the white room that evening, she

You & I contend for the vast space beneath your skin. I’m knowingly erotomanic—erotoleptic. Lusting to pierce you deeper-than-dermis & farther-than-fascia. Ravenously thirsty for your

You’re rattling around in my head like loose change worth a fortune what do I do with you how to honour value when it cannot

Mornings are easy. I make coffee fry two eggs read the news. Afternoons I read Hemingway Bukowski then I sleep. Nights are harder. Twelve hours

echoes in my mind elevate to ecclesiastical dissonance as I rebuke the Man from my upbringing and my afterlife to shroud myself in your vines.

if i want to pen such love stories, i must find feet in another continent i must start with the sun rays on his lips

If her heart is golden then mine is blue, battered and bruised from years of abuse. For centuries, I forced desperate pleas to the souls

I’d like to cook you breakfast and drink mimosas made with the cheapest champagne, mixed with the smallest amount of orange juice. I’d like you

it began quietly / in the soft unassuming way of an ordinary moment / that later unfurls across time, casually blooming / and birthing a

An envelope arrived with a handwritten return address: “DAD” in uneven block print. It’s not stiff enough for polaroids           of

my dad doesn’t rate the pictures by gui we’ve got up in the sitting room. those are altered he argues. the colours weren’t like that.

Strange, after living so long apart the things that resurrect the memory of your touch; a vanilla-scented candle, the taste of Turkish coffee; or the