one. i sit down at this white desk and stare at the wall. i can’t force poetry. i can’t aimlessly scribble my thoughts. it happens once...

routine dilutes me. makes my motions less fluid, more rigid. a coffee cup in the kitchen, half-drunk in haste lies there: still. rushed...

undated you are a special kind of wonderful. looked into your eyes while the sky turned a deep, dark purple and saw my own reflection....