Poetry

iii.

She wasn't the storm — she was the silence after, the empty street, the taste of coffee gone cold.

vii.

I buried the boy I used to be under a rose bush. Every spring, he blooms in a color he never wore.

xii.

They told me time heals. They didn't tell me it also forgets.

xxiv.

You loved me like a poem you couldn't finish — half-written, half-abandoned, still beautiful.

xxxi.

I don't want to be missed. I want to be answered. I want the phone to ring before the ache gets loud.

xlv.

Some nights the ravens land on my ribs and I let them stay. At least something wants to.