I write poetry for the soul of the poet and the scientist. I also read many books and paint many things.

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*                      ․•     #

                                                 Μ∞η∙◖

                                                                          ∘∙νεηυϟ

                                  ∗

           ⋱                      •

            .                 #  ◎∙ϟατυ®η                 *

* .                                               .   

*omitted 

.             .            reminds me of #

                    ,                             a *

 *                    .                    blue •

.               .           afternoon ∙

                 •.   His

            blue *

         °∙   aura

  * highlighting•.

        the whites of his shoes.

                  .                             •

*

    *ashing out all of the orange

*in his auburn.•  

           °.

     . • *

*curly,

                  .•

. • .                  ° .

*                

 ° .

* brown hair.

.

     .  

.

darkening the yellow patterns

                in the mustard panels

            of his unlabeled flannel.

         * .

       . •

;

*but, just like the fog

                     he rolls in…

like depression

.                          in the spring.

.   ‘           *          ‘ 

                                                       :

*                  ⛈          :          *      

.       ‘             ‘

 :                 ‘                   :  ‘            ‘

. bringing with him. •°   ‘    ‘

 ‘       ‘           ‘        ‘       ‘      ‘

. *all of the wildflowers. .*  : ‘

. * ○ . the insects. ‘    ‘    ‘   ‘

‘    ‘    ‘    ‘     ‘    ‘           🌧

    ‘       Vv.      ‘        :  

.°          ‘         •.    ‘       ‘

           .    ‘       🌧

 * ,               •   ‘      ‘        ‘        :

‘          ‘

 v . v  V.     ‘      

‘& the rain.  🌦

                     : 

 ‘  

      ‘

:

       ☄’



-six pm 

dearly *omitted,

found images of you moving on a scuffed vhs tape. i heard your voice sing sweetly something i never thought i’d hear again. the coffee buzzes my brainwaves and allows me to think clearly.

spotify playlist where i saved the serenades you wrote for me. every melody from the songs we *♡’ed from that concert we drove to Baltimore to see. we spent the night together in that fancy suite. we ate the world’s worst pizza and smoked the world’s finest weed.

i noticed how the girl in your songs had red hair before she had mine. how you thought your favorite color was green before you realized how dangerous were my eyes. i think you’re a liar. because you texted me last Thursday just to say.you didn’t wanna *♡ me anymore.                         °

                        .                              Vv.              

i don’t think it’s too funny how every time i try to write about you, all my poems ends the same way. you’re a cycle of never ending torment. an apocalypse where my ♡ seeks rest and the grief lasts for eternity. i would believe the gift of having you once, and the feeling of losing you, akin to losing everything is the punishment i get for believing god exists somewhere inside of me. in a place within my psyche i long for it to not be.°  ..             .          .:

               .                   .                *                           , 

i’d stop writing about your café au lait eyes all together if the fondness of our encounters didn’t purr like the white noise of needles scratching vinyl records. i’d stop dreaming of you in color if you didn’t look just like a sunset. i would rue the day i crossed your path and askew the day you. crossed me. although you were the one to do me wrong, i am burdened with your memories. as you live a life that seems like paradise without me.. .

are you lonely? is this why every now and then you call me? do you long for my warmth the same way i long for your, ‘i’m sorry’. if you could go back to last ○ would you take back all the horrible ways you hurt me? would you have come to my house at all? begged for a last *♡ and the back of my throat? would you have fought for me? would you have let him have me so easily if you knew then what is reality this instant?

that i am a married woman, now. -six pm

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*♡

When my mother asked me if I wanted a cat, I told her no. Still, she gave me a cat. She snuck him into my home inside her jacket, released him upon my living room, and handed me a half-empty box of kibble. But Moblin was a blessing. I’ve been given many blessings in life that I didn’t deserve, and Moblin was certainly one of them.

Every time I think about Moblin, I think about how I took for granted how I was certain I’d have him for 18 years. How I looked forward to watching him age. How I spent so much private time with him in the early mornings. How I had a short temper with him when he’d piss on my novel, or my artwork, or my bed. Because he was the most honest critic on the East Coast and frankly nothing was up to snuff—he was the only one bold enough to tell me. Now I wish I could pull apart every blanket and basket of dirty laundry and be set to re-wash them for the rest of my life. I miss him so much, even the parts that were hard about raising him. Because he was my little boy.

In his last hours we sat and watched a storm roll in. He wanted me to hold him. He spent most of his time on my chest. I would caress him, and call him “Baby” and with the end of his weakening tale strength his tale would sway and wrap around me. When he was a kitten I’d call out “Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaby, Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaby Mooooooobliiiiiiiiiiin” and he’d hustle over on his light feet, 3 mittens and one long sock, a tuxedo chest, beaming greenish eyes, and a little white chin. The cutest meow, the silkiest fur, and he’d cuddle in a ball on the couch with me, where I slept, because I couldn’t afford a bed. I couldn’t afford a cat. Ultimately that’s what stopped us from being able to save him. The vet wouldn’t offer us any extensive care to try and save him unless we could come up with 2 grand at 3 am immediately. They made my husband leave the office, our cat spitting blood and barely breathing, to go to a Quick Check ATM so that we can take out the 700 dollars they needed to put him to sleep. I turned the lights off in the office while we waited, and I held him, and sang to him, and apologized for failing him.

I have so much guilt, but having a cat’s life cut so short, 2 of the 20 years he deserved, is a Hell I’ll never forgive myself for allowing to exist on Earth. I miss my boy with everything in me. I’m so sorry I couldn’t give him more. I don’t even know what went wrong, just that it happened so fast.

Hold your family a little closer tonight, for me. I hope Moblin is truly at rest, it’s the least I could hope for. But he deserved more. He deserved better. And we didn’t deserve him.

Paige Six 2019


Today is my daughter’s last day of homeschool. It’s also just a couple weeks before she’s officially a teenager. I wonder if I could have made more of this time… all of it, but especially the last year with her home. We haven’t spent this much time together in a long time. While the pandemic which spurred this stint was not by any means on our terms, it’s still been a blessing to have had it.

It feels like the bustle of the hustle blinded me. I take things slower now. I don’t want things to go back to the way they were before. I don’t she does either, honestly. Now we must strike a balance. I hope she is treated well in her new school. I hope that sending her back will be a decision we are happy about. I hope that college doesn’t take me away from her too much as it did the first time around.

Here’s to hoping!

Paige Six | 6.17.21

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*🌙

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If not for memory

what should I stake my life upon

forget the star marbled sky,

closes cerulean curtain

sunset’s rose incomparable

to your rosy blush…

One perfect night not enough

for life-time of poems

my bone; my soul,

my soup of marrow

I give it all to not forget,

a single moment sin regret

raining poetry remiss…



the hearth of a fire, 

the scent of a garden

the spring of grassy flat,

soft air of Spring, 

the way your hair

brushed my cheek…

lay downy fuzz of a neckline,

twinkle glimmer of a necklace

to rival the horizon, 

Jupiter and all his lightning 

pale by comparison to 

the sparkle of your dark eyes…



the delicate lace

of fingers locking,

hands clasped,

knees knocking,

delicate as a kiss…

one night together,

forever stolen,

poetry’s remiss.

-six pm  | {Inspired by The Three Musketeers page 123,

 {prompted by my friend, poet: zeke’s interlude 🌙