the wind blows in a certain way
during the deep winter months.
it is difficult to describe.
it sounds like a mix between
a shushing sound
and a soft whisper
as it moves along the side of the house
and onward into the night.
it isn’t deep winter,
yet i was awoken
from sleep by its movement.
maybe it is a shushing sound
or a whisper-like hum.
though at this point in my life
it sounds like a memory.
jeremiah once listened to this sound.
who was he?
who was i?
i will not ask this outwardly
to the world.
it holds few answers for me.
the wind has returned again.
did it carried jeremiah away
during its last visit?
no, i simply awoke from my rest
to the wind moving about my soul,
gently pulling all that
which was no longer needed from within.

01:00. Quiet. This, to me, is the most sacred time. Gentle breaths. Every part of the skin is aware of the stillness. I never liked the night. My fears would always find me. Now I long for it. I can strip down and be as I wish. I can witness without judgment and hold myself. I reach out to dreams now, and open to them, let them fill in the questions and unknowns. The stillness holds space, and the night, it grants me freedom not felt in the day.

father, as i age
i can see you
in my eyes,
and in the wrinkles
on my face.
they are not
sad eyes,
just pensive,
eyes that hold more feelings
than age.
i don’t know
what aged you,
what put those
emotions deep within
those eyes of yours.
I know they would
hold me.
it wasn’t always with
love. no,
it was seldom so.
there was a bitterness
there, deep in
those eyes.
when i look at
my reflection,
when i hold my gaze,
i see a gentleness
brought about by
life and all the trials
i have had.
it never made
me bitter.
it never made me
as it made you.
but i do not
trust myself.
my words can bite.
i don’t want my
eyes to as well.
i don’t trust
that they
will always hold
those dear to me
with love.
no, i don’t.
i have tried.
now must turn inward,
and let my eyes
look outward
toward the word,
but only truly
see within.

why are you visiting
my dreams?

didn’t we share
everything

in waking life
that expressed our

desire? but now
i wonder.

in dreams there is
a gentle slowness.

the haste
and intensity

that burned us to the
ground

stays away.
and when i wake

i wonder if i should
reach out.

perhaps i should
extend my hand

and make tangible
the dreams that move me.

but i don’t.
no,

not anymore.
i prefer my dreams.

in dreams
i am indestructible.

i hold this in my mind.
after so long
i found the string;
the one i pulled
which broke apart
the pattern.
i fumbled for it
for sometime,
sitting amidst a pile
of threads
hoping and praying
i might find the end –
that i might find
the beginning.
now,
i can start to
reconstruct,
to interlace the threads
and weave a new
pattern.
i want to weave you,
your life,
into this.
to entwine us.
how do i ask?
i have tried.
i have.
the fibers of this string
are so worn now.
they are delicate.
i am delicate.
a body hardened
and a mind so sharp,
but my heart,
…my heart.
i have started
the pattern,
i have reached out my hand,
offering you the thread
so we can
weave together.
but i stop,
i have seen this,
i have felt
this.
i withdraw.
i weave through my heart
and mine alone.
i need to knit this
for me,
just for me now.


i want to arrive.
is it again
that i desire
to do so?
or have i
been here the
whole time?
i think i’m
just stubborn,
perhaps.
but who was
i then?
fingertips trace
soft skin
that has aged
so much
over just a few years.
gray hairs and
wrinkles,
eyes that pierce
even my own
being
in a frightening
and beautiful way.
i would be okay
arriving alone.
and i would be okay
returning alone.
fingertips
wouldn’t trace
empty sky
and these beautiful eyes
that pierce would
be just for me.