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.  

Aladdin 1992

Dear 6,

     I write you to allow myself closure. The truth I’ve never revealed to you is how after years of atheism and searching for answers it was only upon meeting you that I almost believed in God.

     I’d spent my young years with my nose to the grindstone and had very little time for fun and frolic. I have always been restless, a wild-child in my soul diving into fiction to suppress these desires. I’d sacrificed education for hourly wages necessary to keep the roof over my head. I exposed these truths to you in shame to be comforted by the thick tusk of your shoulder.

      The musk of your natural body still intoxicates my senses. The deep sienna of your skin against the champagne color of my wrists trembling as you placed upon its thin wafer layer a first kiss. Where did it all go wrong? Was it how our bodies didn’t quite fit the way our minds melted like wax and our conversation flowed like wine? The awkward communion of the first sacrament of our union…

     This I won’t forget: your deception and how its reveal decapitated the holy body of our bond at the slender curve of its neck.

     There are two instances in my life that are traumatic blessings: the birth of my child at the age of 18 and the loss of you at 28. To the other side of this continent you reside with a whole fraction of my soul. I write you this letter in hopes you might know. But I send nothing to you, our communication will remain cold.

Save you discover this letters, until which no bars will I hold.



*For him whose name meaning is heart, and the associated lucky number is 6.

*six pm | 2021 {notes on poems

Mother’s Day 2018

On this day in 2019 my mother passed away at the age of 50. Her name was Rosemarie Lehe and I will not let today pass without honoring her for all her incredible humanity. In this humble attempt at something somewhat like an obituary I hope to honor what should not be forgotten.

Rosemarie was a light in the lives of all who she touched. The youngest of five children, Mom grew up sheltered in the suburbs surrounding New York City, in a small cookie-cutter town called Wood-Ridge.

My mother learned early on the virtue of generosity, as my grandparents routinely fed, clothed, and sheltered many of the neighborhood children. I have quite an extended family due to the nature of my childhood home. My Aunts Dawn and Donna in particular are both as much a Lehe as my late Aunt Donna, my late Uncle Johnny, my Aunts Barbara, her dear friend Robin, my Aunt Laura, and my mother were themselves.

She became a mother at 18, I being her first born. My sister was born almost 5 years later, and 10 years after my sister was born Mom brought our brother into the world. I would not presume that I alone could tell you their stories of Mom, only that she strived to relate to us. Mom blessed us with her infectious smile always, and never denied us her time. Of all the inheritances in the world, nothing could ever amount to that sort of wealth, I guarantee.

Unfortunately, my mother’s gentle and non-aggressive nature lead to many hardships and pitfalls. Mom was the victim of intense domestic violence, at the age of 13 I witnessed her beaten just short of death by her boyfriend. My mother was the victim of much sexual abuse and violence by men of authority and in the workplace. She suffered from a deep fear of abandonment, which resulted in a string of unhealthy partnerships over the course of her life. By her 30’s my mother became severely addicted to opiates, and as a result of that and the incident which occurred when I was 13, my siblings and I spent many years in foster care.

After this point we hardly spent time with her, calls became less frequent, cell phones were not as common nor did I have one, and she was left alone. I wonder often if Mom might have found sobriety had she not been so isolated. It’s a guilt I find myself toiling over often, because the independence was a thing I grew used to and comfortable in. The most difficult part of her death for me was accepting that she would never become sober and live a healthy life free of addiction’s pains. Truthfully I never stopped believing Mom would find the strength to quit. In that I mourn two deaths, that of my mother and that of the hope I reserved for her healthy future.

Despite the tragedies that befell her, as we all get to have our own as we press through life, Mom was authentically eclectic. Her fervor for fashion was fierce, without forgetting to be fun, whimsical, and transient. From a young age, in a time when it was unheard of for a young woman to dye her hair she did; sporting a stark white streak on the side of her perfectly feathered raven locks. She also amassed a yet to be rivaled collection of leather boots, jackets, and bags over the course of her life, caring meticulously for every garment. And I cannot forget to mention how her passion for animal print transcended infamy after a whole church and choir honored her memory by sporting leopard print everything on the day of her funeral.

Towards the end of her life, although I didn’t know at the time that it was the end of her life, I moved back home around the corner from her house. Our time together then did not compensate for the time lost in childhood, but it was a welcome blessing. My mother was able to spend days with my daughter and experience holidays, weekends, and years as a full-time grandmother which she found immense joy and purpose in. Mom understood my daughter in ways that only someone as empathic and sweet as her could. I learned so much about compassionate parenting from watching her parent from the outside in. I witnessed my daughter bask in the abundance of love which I had only felt from her and from my own grandmother, who Mom and I both missed miserably.

I would describe myself as headstrong, and often misunderstood, but my mother went the extra mile to try and connect, understand, and support me, no matter how hard on her I could be. 2017- 2019 were particularly transitory years for my life, where I was not always my best self despite earnest effort. In 2018 I began to train in hopes of joining the military, Mom gifted me a flag, and was the only person not to doubt my capability for even a moment. In 2019 my husband and I were married and Mom walked me down the aisle. I nearly postponed the wedding a year. For the record I am so glad I hadn’t, more than just the global pandemic– how much harder that would have made planning, rather because Mom passed not 8 months after. I’m honored that chance and circumstance granted me that universal kindness.

My mother’s care and devotion to me saved my life, and set me up for the most success she could offer me with whatever little she had. With her I was able to achieve independence and find myself in ways which without her would have been impossible. I look back on the time I had with her on this Earth with longing, I want to be with her again so badly it makes me ache. But I also have a sense of peace, knowing how fortunate I am in reality to have had her at all. My mother armed me with titanium empathy, iron perseverance, and endless love. I only hope only that her investment and belief in my capabilities will not be in vain. That is truly my deepest insecurity.

The only wish she ever expressed to me was her dream of seeing the Grand Canyon via road trip with my sister and us together. I’m morose that this never came to fruition. I was building a playlist and trying to make it happen before joining the service. Perhaps one day I will be able to drive there and spread or bury her ashes. Perhaps she’s already seen in from the perspective of speeding light and cosmic particles. The future is a mystery of which no one human can be certain. What I am sure of without doubt is that my mother Rosemarie Lehe’s life, one of radical compassion and selfless love, is a beacon in the sentiments which populate my heart. Her memory will remain a cherished piece of me which I would never dare vanquish. Her kindness radiates out the smile and light of my own child. The lessons I’ve learned by her example and lent experience will not be lost so long as I’m alive to ponder them.

Thank you for it all, Mom. I wish you peace. Perhaps we’ll meet again.

Paige Six | 11.5.20