I write in the spaces between us, where things are ignored, silenced, pre-verbal. I write with anger and gratitude, shame and openness. I write to sort out the shattered self and glue it back together again. I write in the veins where it broke, describe the textures of loss, and the smoothness that remains.

I sit at the edge of a cliff with my notebook, my camera, my concepts, my conceptions, my thoughts, my memories. I want to unearth the mysteries of you and me. I wonder if I can ever get close enough to anything to be in communion with it at all.

The poet romantic is at it again
Heart in his hands
Hiding
Writing

Will you take all of me or none?

Influences