September 20, 2025

​

The Dove

​

His words are prophetic as they drip out of his mouth into the ether,

where they are to be picked up by another mind

and woven within the intercourse of shared air.

 

As he speaks, a piece of me dies, the imaginings of a life of suffering and profound human existence on a parallel dimensional line; 

coexisting, fighting, dancing for space. 

He unleashes his life's story, a time where health couldn't mean freedom, and so he had to choose one...

 

His freedom a sour exchange for what was to be a prison of his own.

​

Di di mau.

​

​

​

​

_______________________________

​

​

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

​

March 23rd, 2025

Zutto.

TWO MONTHS. 
It's been two months since my world was rocked so hard that Jimi Hendrix would've begged me to give him back his throne.

Two months since I wondered if I was comatose.
And if I was, whether someone could just unplug me already. 

It's been wondering. 
It's been remembering. 
Trying hard to forget.
No, trying to remember each breath.
Soft smiles. Belly laughs. 
Skin on skin, taste on taste.

The sound of our jackets crinkled against one another.

The wind blowing locks in waves on ninth avenue. Or was it tenth?
If only I wasn't so bad at directions. 

Boiled sheep ears and white wine. 
I wish I remembered for certain if it was sauvignon blanc.
Or, pinot grigio?
I don't know.

It was ages ago and it was yesterday. It could've been.
It-
It's just so. hard.
Time really is, "timing".

It's been two months, minus three days since I read fourteen words.
The undoing of the twelve (plus an emoji) that came before them.
Fourteen words that made no sense.

I waited a week, unsure of what to say.
Did your ex grab your phone somehow? Did he throw us all away?

Then, I responded with twenty seven.

Twenty seven words. 

First thirty. No... twenty. 
Mh. 
Sixteen? 
It can't just be sixteen. 
I need advice.

I'll sent it tonight. No... tomorrow.
How's 8:57am? 8:57? ... 8:59 then.
It didn't matter - the words ended us just so effortlessly as it all began.

The butterflies, only this time, I'm not high.
You'll have to peel me from the ground before you.

I feel like I'm going crazy.
And you know what amazes me?
All of this from the power of fourteen little words.
After the twelve (and an emoji) before them. 

_

A friend texted me a few days ago
and in that text she wrote
that ghosting isn't ghosting; it's abandonment.
That "ghosters" should be given the death penalty.

Another said you're a coward. Another, manipulative.

And yet, somehow, and why do I defend you?

Acknowledging that this is new and scary,
and maybe I'm quite the contrarian
but yet, all I want when the flames in me are idle
is to hug you, and kiss you,
and tell you that I feel it too

that it's hard, so hard.
and that I'm scared, so scared.

But let's do hard and scared together.