Charlemagne — I was 18 when you went off to Middle Earth. Angelica in her golden palace; French and posh receiving gifts of gold from desert merchants. Swimming in the love letters — perfumed parchment, perfect cursive — I’d almost forget you’d be dodging bullets, writing me serenades between flashes of fire fights.

You felt so young and powerful in your dress blues; so confident and deadly holding that rifle. Still, never dared to raise a trigger finger towards my direction, never harmed a single ringlet about my crown. I was your princess. You were my charming. That was our happy ending.

To the younger me:

Be ready — they’re gonna leave your baby in Fallujah.

They’re going to declare a jihad against your heartbeat, and you’ll lock yourself up for eons in a tall tower.  Every pounding arrhythmia will cease to be, replaced by a chorus of tinnitus.

Rapunzel, you’ll let your leg hairs grow so long, you’ll throw the ends out the window, spiders will climb them like vines and nip your skin, you’ll drench every pillow. You’ll collapse from within.

Time is an illusion. Time is not a dimension–don’t be so stupid. Time is a devil. Put down the physics textbook and begin to write your poetry opus. Don’t forget to burn it after you finish. Press forward, because time heals no wounds, time heals nothing.

I lament every second I was not at his feet anointing him with holy oil. Close my eyes and graze the fresh cut grass of his buzzcut. Lips caress the feather of his eyelashes. Nipping the apple of his cheek. Deep timbre of his throat, the way his adam’s apple bounced.

So hold him closely. Kiss his whole body. You cannot stop him. (But please, beg him to stay.)

*six pm

i. the limit: some infinities are bigger than the other…

Determining the Slope:

I rack my brain until I focus in on one instant of time that distilled the peak of happiness between us. I subtract me from the equation and am left with only *u. Naturally, I take out a piece of paper and compose the instant into a poem.

Conceptualizing How Small Infinity Can Be:
I fold the paper continually, constantly, evenly, until I cannot fold it any further. I realize, conceptually, that I could continue to fold it, but it’s too dense for my lady fingers, still, it’s lost no value, it’s lost no mass. I finally grasp infinity in the palm of my hand. I finally have conceptualized how small something so endless is truly. I no longer feel burdened by the pain of losing you, and dwell in the blessing of the memory in perfect peace.

Expressing the Derivative Function:

Guilty. I went off on another tangent, didn’t I? Trying to create a harmonic frequency between us.  Attempting to unionize algebra and geometry; discovering calculus. ( – us ) 

It clicks. It took only the crack of a heartbreak. Although, from within the confines of our 4-D spacetime it sounded more like a big bang. It wasn’t quite so dramatic from the vantage of a higher plane. My guts, thoughts, and inner-workings spilled outward and in every direction — hot with grief but cooling quick— the seemingly un-seen ingredients congealing into spherical structures and gaseous masses. I step back from this new universe, wipe the salt from my bleary eyes, see clearly and declare, “It is good.”

Glad to finally understand what I was made of. Even if I had to be dis-integrated, first.

Isolating the Integral:
I had a thirst for knowledge; crafted water. A little bit of hydrogen, some oxygen, atoms, bosons, and quarks in all their flavors squeezed together into a swirling tonic fluere. I take a sip and remember being human. How strange. How lovely. I fashion a lime, —slice— my drink becomes complete.

I recall the slope of your throat and calculate it inch by inch forever. May the limits of a frail female heart never condense *u into something finite in her fever. May *u flow forward in infinite flux, avoiding every event horizon, transcending lightspeed, and all that matters, in every direction you choose to fly in.



*six pm



in this dream we are

listening to that song by

Guitarricadelafuente when

he confesses he sold his soul

to the devil for money


and you lift me up

in our walk-in closet

your foot steps softened

by the plush of the floor

to floor carpet


and I cradle your skull

in the place between

my shoulder

my chest

the nape of my neck

my breasts


and you swing me in your arms

and cup me close,

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

and we dance

*s⁝x pm

∅.                                              *

                                                                         .            ✧     .     

    *                                                       .

                                    .                                                 *        


nothing gold can stay; 

                   not even
       Dorian Grey– 

ain’t that odd, though? ⋱


               .                      .

                              ∴                                      .                                                 

( it’s almost funny)

   how the beauty and the money.   °      ✧    . •
            ◦    seem to have initiated an inertial, maybe even
                 gravitational, pull around one another
                 like a chain reaction → a constellation of big.   
                dippers and little dippers           °              .       o        .  
      .          ✧     .     







              *     i loved *u dearly.    *         .               •

                         •                      . 

       *              tidally love locked forever in a memory  .               •

                      of a perfect autumn evening draping starshine

                 •.   sky high before midnight counting all the skyscrapers

                      or drinking in the day time along the High Line. .          ✧    

.                              *                           .

                                                We would’ve,







                                                                          s    .

                                                                           l               .

                                                                              o           .

                                                                                   w   *


                                                                                                   .                in

                                                                                                        .                          s

                                                                                                              .                              l    

                                                                                                                      .                      o          

                                                                                                            .       w

. c

           s        .     *       i         
 *            ✧     . r
  e                .      c



      t              d                      a

                   s         u            *and                        p

                                                         we                      s      

                                                               still    all

                                                                                  ↝   might,

                                                                                          we’re             if *u

                                                                                                       when                     want

                                                                                                              (day                         to,
                                                                                                                      some              *u)
                                                                                                                          know,   ◞

                                                                                                                                  (or whenever…)



◜   .      

 ↘    .       



                         *six pm

*metaphysical merengue

all that’s necessary is a couple of crayons
if you’d like for me to color you a whole galaxy
a white milky pen for the pin pricks of stars
in the velvet mass of vanta empty
the space between all people can see
how we limit so much, and believe we know everything.

how arrogant we must be to say there is no creator.
all he needed was a couple of crayons, and a hand full of mud,
some thoughts in his head, and breath in his lungs. –six pm

first draft*

․ ◦◯

mine eyes traced
the lines of his body
each muscle like poetry
sculpted for me to read.

took my finger tips & followed
stubbled braille of his cheeks
mounted his lap & traced
the horizon of his smile
with my own lips.

*six pm

1. “To the woman he said, “I will surely multiply your pain.”

i believe up until || God cracked Adam’s rib, that man had not yet considered the fact that he was breathing. * i believe some would call this a gift. * we are not born beautifully… everyone must blossom and bud. i am a natural mother, i understand the price paid for life with blood. * || * if there were an element that we should base life upon: it would be carbon, i assume. so why do i base the life i have been gifted on the likes of you? * is it because you are a kiss; a cellular conception multiplied by folds of four balanced betwixt my hips? * a perfect prophecy of proud ancestry proclaimed from the mouth of the royal He … ? * || is it how “now” is an infinity; now is when He speaks. now is where we meet.

2. “Your desire shall be contrary to your husband, but he shall rule over you.”

black, dull, and un•gleaming: life without you. || blackness of bare earth at the tale end of winter. no promise of green except for the old knowledge: knowing storms always run dry of rain; * knowing cold months of winter bring forth warm nights of summer and spring. * || * understanding pain forecasts growth; and love foreshadows pain. * how men and women were never made the same. * || my memories play back like the red glow in the rearview mirror, if you and i were a one-way street. red light in the dead of night dimming every imperfection. these brightest spots where the fabric of black rip open, while “we” faded  to  black like dusk. * || i believe in black holes. black eyes big as pansies, so big they could swallow me up. bold and italicized by ethnic ambiguity. dense in gravity. * behold: you are original man, you are so ambitious, i am was your woman. we felt so endless; infinity masquerading as security. || i found myself staring intent while you flew west, watching your eyes offset the sunset until they were just two specks of dust. * ∗

3. “There too Lilith shall repose, and find a place to rest.”

∗* i believe the apocalypse is a midlife crisis, and an untimely split. ∗ Earth opening beneath the feet of Eden and swallowing every•thing up. || oh and, yes, i believe Lilith was there; her moonbeam smile, her long raven hair. she slithered a pale crocodile into Adam’s bed. Her unblemished curves of childless girth. her cotton thighs coiled around his head. || oh, yes, i do believe Lilith exists. and i believe her burning kiss burned because Adam was fucking selfish.

∗s⁞x pm

heavily drafting // the base of this poem was a confession I’d read on reddit that I had kept in my notes. As I continue to edit this piece however it inches farther and farther away from the source. If anyone has the link please share so I can update with it.




It was 2am when I started to shift in my sheets. By the time I’d accept my fate I rolled to grab my phone and it’d become 5. It felt like it’d become 5 although the night hasn’t quite started to shift into day, yet.

So what, it’s 5am? So what if this was another sleepless night? I fill the void with unspoken poetry and drifting memories. They’re all about you. I think about the day before I met you. The day before you and I swiped right. The days before special days are always exceptionally dull and ordinary, aren’t they?

Surreal doesnt even begin the describe this pit that sits in my stomach knowing its been 5 days and 4 years since that last night I was in your arms.

The ticking of the clock has never seemed to go so slow, not even since I was a child. How many more days must I continue to walk away from you?

We acted on spontaneity and I’m so glad we did. I’m glad I answered that phone call to be met with your deep voice, that *omitted accent, your round apple cheeks — which I desired to bite instantly. Your New York swagger is like no other.

That night we talked for hours, and for this I have 0 remorse. I spent the whole month of June staving off sleep, even though I’d just been promoted at my job and probably needed it. By the time I came out of the post-break up coma they’d already fired me.

In the morning I was greeted with your morning texts bring a smile to my face brighter than the sunrise. I woke up early back in those days. 6am would be sleeping in. Now I struggle to greet the morning glories and I speak in familiar song to the local nightingale. I’m awake with you but without each evening, now.

Now it’s just derivative poetry expressing the intensity of butterflies that sucker punched me. I fell for you like Rome. That red thread which connected your hand to mine is wearing thin, now, *u. Coffee no longer stimulates me and I need it to function.

I’m helpless in this situation, it’s out of my control. I am living in a fantasy prison of my own derision, aren’t I?

I’m so sick of writing about “what ifs”  and praying to God to make them definites. The truth is, I refuse to acknowledge, is that I will never see you again.

So maybe this can finally be goodbye…

⊹ •      . *

        · ˚ °.   ✷ . •        


2am confessions reddit

It’s 5am, another sleepless night. I fill the void with music and drifting thoughts. Yet it always boomerangs back to you. It seems surreal that I’ll be in your arms in 2 months. The ticking of the clock has never seemed to go so slow, the numbered days so sluggishly passing by.

We acted on spontaneity and I’m so glad we did. I’m glad I answered that phone call to be met with your soft voice which admittedly melted my heart instantly. That night we talked for hours, shamelessly skipping on sleep, all through to sunrise. In the morning I was greeted with the reciprocity of expressing the intensity of butterflies that sucker punched us. For neither of us were looking for company that night, let alone looking for  love.Them same butterflies still linger whenever my ears are blessed with your voice, months on from that first phone call… many, many phone calls later, actually.  

But we’re on a thin thread that’s wearing out, of no fault of our own. We’re helpless in this situation, it’s out of our control. We live in a fantasy, don’t we? which is why I surprised you with confirmation of my flight to come see you. I surprised myself, actually. I acted completely on impulse, so sick of us talking about “what ifs”  and wanted to make them definites. 

The truth is, which we both refuse to acknowledge, is that as soon as I get on that return flight home…we’ll never see each other again, we’ll fade out of contact. We’ve already been incredibly daring and selfish to allow us to continue for as long as we have. We’re worlds apart and if the people in our respective lives knew of us and what we are, we’d be shamed. It hurts because I want you to be a part of my life, and for you to introduce me to yours. For you to meet my friends and I yours, I think they would like you, except for the itching issue that our love isn’t supposed to be, regardless of how effortlessly hard we fell for each other, no matter how ‘right’ it feels. Sure, there have been exceptions where it has worked and flourished for other people. But we aren’t so lucky, nor are we so brazen to trust in a slim possibility when there’s so much at risk on the line. That particular aspect of us will always be an uncomfortable topic, no matter how the perception of us will become more  acceptable in other people’s view as years pass, and I don’t expect you to wait for them years to pass until then.  

So for the two weeks I am with you, I’ll bask in every second I have with you, I’ll smother you in love, for I know it’ll be the only opportunity I will have to attempt to express the unfathomable amount of it I have for you. It’s a lifetime supply that I’m being forced to only give a measly two week trial of. I truly believe you’re the love of my life, but I’ve been incredibly selfish enough, and it’s soon time to let you go. I’m accepting of this. I hope life is generous to you, because after everything you’ve gone through, you deserve it all and more, and it’s truly unfortunate I can’t be the one to give you it, no matter how badly I want to. I want to grasp onto you for as long as I can, to postpone the inevitable parting of our ways, but I think I’ve been selfish enough.  

i am
but a
a darling
with his
of the
yearning for
space walks.
the DNA,
into ringlets
in frozen
of pearl
a necklace;
the love
my parents
at least
one time.
to be
well traveled;
in a
blanket of
pine needles
& honey
i reach
out from
earth’s cradle;
longing to
find a
than any
we have
that will
last past
of our
this station
of the universe
is too small now,
we must go,

Stephen Hawking
one of
his usual
of miraculous
the universe
has an
as all
have a
we are
we will
in the
face of
clocks &
will quiver.
by the
of dying
zipping like
ice skates
the rings
of Saturn,
& suicide
our weak
in honor
of Cassini

Or stay
day dreaming
here upon
the heavenly
rains that
rapture the
But i,
i will
try to
paths for
as far
out as
May the
of humans
it farther…
. . .may they
be the
to my




here on Earth?
∗s⁞x pm

My hopes are as follows:

  • That you’ve achieved your goals.
    • (because then I’ll know it wasn’t all for nothing that we let it all go.)
  • That you never see this.
    • (because then I’ll know you still read my poems.)
  • That you’ve found someone who loves you.
    • (because you’ve chosen to travel a lonely road doesn’t mean you deserve to be alone.)
  • That if you do read these poems, that you’re happy for me.
    • (because moving on wasn’t easy, but that’s a fact that I never wanted you to know.)

*six pm