Born in morning with jaded eyes.

Foul solitude thrashes in a thick void,

soaked in desire for the one lost at sea.

Chaos seethes below churning tumultuous worry.

The tunnel darkens but for a spark.

Hope wanes but never dies.

The Attic


A ghost fashioned out of love and nostalgia to calm my storm paces the attic floor. The lines of her hands trace up the stairs with fingerprints and echoes of laughter. Aching for the breath and bones, I sit with the construct as she continues to color me. With all that grace and light she speaks to what was and what should have been. I gently nod and remind the ghost I have made, she is loved truly and unconditionally.