i’ve forgotten what

money can buy: quiet, and

crisp white comforters


let’s instead assume

romance out of nothing, out

of laughter and air

a love letter to my career

i couldn’t have loved you,

couldn’t have cradled you so close to my chest,

given you my love with no conditions,


given you all that i had,

(plus my lunch, my jacket, my extra pen)


most days been satisfied with nothing in return

at any other point in my life before this one.

i didn’t love myself enough to understand

that this is just the shape of your affection, that

its jagged edges have nothing to do with me

i skipped through the dark,

all the what ifs and doubts–

too much

too far


drowned out by

this small, quiet celebration of the possibility

of a place to call my own.


i’m not sleeping enough for

good poetry–

there’s some kind of balance between

perfectly healthy and overly poetic that

i’m not quite striking