the sky held the sun in one hand,
and cradled the moon in the other —
in those moments before dusk,
everything glistened and glowed.

maybe our differences,
our opposite personalities,
like the moon and the sun,
made what we had beautiful.



Writing Prompt 1: “What is your favorite work of art? What do you love about it?”


after the nighthawks have gone

after the nighthawks have gone
there are seven, maybe eight, stools
and bare countertop that remain.
a straw wrapper lies on the floor,
three grains of sugar are strewn
on the counter like long-parted islands.
(the counter is chipped in corners,
but no one has noticed for years).
a single fluorescent bulb shines,
but no one is inside, the door is locked.
yet the bulb shines.
like harbor lights on the abandoned pier
in Palm Beach in the dense fog of night.
like the street like on forty-eight street
as it approaches five in the afternoon.

what is it about these lights that draw men to them?
love, hope, vainglory?
longing, lust, loneliness?

perhaps men and tides are quite similar,
and the acidic flickering of such lights
is not to be temping at all,
but part of the night, the day,
and something less poetic then
a shuttered shop on a chilly, shadow-laden street.



Judas betrayed Jesus.
Jesus knew Judas would betray him.
Yet Jesus accepted Judas regardless.

Don’t let a person’s betrayal or rejection keep you from loving that person well.

Just as Jesus’ love was unconditional, we too must strive for our love to have no bounds.

It’s far better to be known for a gentle, unrelenting love rather versus a cautious, self-preserving spirit.



I have tried.
I have tried with everything I’ve got to keep you hanging by your decaying stem on my branches that are slowly becoming bare. But you keep swaying. And it gets tiring extending energy to things that don’t want to stay – well, aren’t meant to stay.

And I’m sorry.
I’m sorry my branches aren’t always stable and that sometimes being attached to them feels more like rollercoaster ride than it should. I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough. And I’m sorry that, once my presence was no longer a convenience but a hindrance, you decided you no longer needed my help or company.

But we will both grow.

Because, in all cycles, loss is necessary.

Because your fallen frame will eventually decompose and new life stem from your skeleton veins.

And because, although trees lose their leaves every winter, they will always reacquire more come spring.







because you are a fading stranger, a breathing ghost, replacing me with whims known only for a couple months — but while you’re bagging leftover foliage from the previous season, clearing your land of the past to make room for the new, I’m crafting crowns from the last few fallen leaves, remembering and cherishing, but moving on with handfuls of spindly twigs and moleskine notebooks filled with hindsight (we may be going our separate ways, but my guess is that we’ll do just fine).