Divine tether.

The Earth is cracking down all of Her seams. She will beat us, in the end, She’s been too tolerant of our mean.

There is a golden thread connecting you to me. Through all dirt roads and dark holes there is always a link.

We are connected by a thin golden string.

Fall in to a chasm and you’ll follow me there. As the world splits under our feet, we are tied together. Always you and me.

Explosions from the Sun, or sheep that try to herd us to their slaughterhouse, they can’t possibly know.

Cosmically imprinted, made into two, She can cave in but it remains me and you.

Empires are burning and we are aflame in their wake. You hold on to me. For our beliefs, we will burn at the stake.

Tethered together by a thin golden string. Wherever there is a you, there will always be a me.


Tumbling up. Into a starry, infinite demise.

Where does your self go when you can’t claim selfless and “me”, and “my’s?”

In my brain I’m screaming “STOP.” “Me first, my way, just this once make it about me…”

But I don’t know how to be selfish. Other than in my car, I have no idea how to scream.

It makes my heart skip and race. No doubt to to stress. And to age.

I need to be number one, soon. Today. I need you to take action, fix, to redeem, to move.

I have always sewn with the scrap from the fabric I’m given. I can make thread from any inadequacy. Hem and break in someone else’s seam.

I need you to take those callused hands to a tailor. To practice the ins and the outs of fixing the holes that you pick. I

need to sit back and to breathe so someone else can finally work at sewing these seams.


I have been fundamentally changed.

The blue prints that map out the solar system of my brain have over passes and alleys.

The roadways that ended with blockades and turns that led to nowhere are connected to more streets.

Satellites orbit. Trees tower and side walks meet.

A tweek in the map that has been short circuited by men who faked cartography was the simple eraser to what was pencil.

A small path to begin what would become a world.

A rewrite and an explorer was all that was needed from a sedentary girl.

He is the Hotchkiss to my unexplored frontier. The mapmaker that changed every unexplored mountain range, drew out a map with a legend to make far off seem near.

I am an entire world because of him. A world I left unexplored because I didn’t know how to search within.

I am changed. And I am of my own choosing, all the things I have and haven’t been.


I have always known that Happy isn’t a goal found at the center of a winding path peppered with thorns.

It isn’t the glint of gold after decades of saving those nuggets to be able to spend.

I’ve known as long as I’ve known sunshine on my face that Happy is noticing signs. Nuances. Colors. Wrinkles and smiles.

I’ve looked for Happy in all of my days and always found Her to be there smiling at me.

The smell of your hair on my favorite blanket.

The sound of your favorite album playing downstairs.

There isn’t an end goal to reach Her. I invite Her in, always, into my home. She came in one day, and She brought you.

Happy knew that She needed us, too.

A Haunting.

Driving down the old streets I used to haunt to get to you. Off of Hazelridge drive.

The last time I saw you it was a Saturday night. Wide, deep, the brightest green eyes.

But now when I take this drive I’m the ghost but you’re the one who died.

It’s a haunting that doesn’t often creep up on me like it you used to. A drive I avoid. The years don’t mend my heart like Time promised to do.

Tonight I’ll howl wildly at the Moon. To you. My muse. I’ll always do everything madly, fully, wholeheartedly, like you’d want me to.


All the words built up in my messy heart decided they couldn’t live there anymore.

They couldn’t sit stale in the lively air and were expelled into wisps that will never be heard.

All the words that seemed so important to scream into the faces that haunted my heartaches, have been dispelled into nights where they lost power, sound, and might.

Closure simply means it needs to be closed. A door shut. A window locked. Any openings that let the warmth out of a home. I guess it never mattered who said it last, closure means that someone merely goes.

I am unwavering stone sunk into earth. The foundation to an empire that the Mother herself can’t cause to quake.

The writer of our stories. My unsaid words can’t own me. With this, my power can’t be anyone’s to take.

New Year.

Soft snores bring in my new year of the soft glow of our Christmas tree.

Flannel robes and messy curls, on a strangely warm night, bring the new year to me.

Fireworks crackle off in the not so distant night and this sparkling ring on my hand keeps catching the light.

I can’t believe this is the home that we’ve made. That somehow I’ve got him, all mine, I won’t ever get over my life blooming this way.

In this mist that we wish was snow, my heart is filled with the most fulfilling sound of his soft snores.

December 15.

Pictures of your round soft cheeks blowing out your four candles while I was in a other city blowing out mine proves there is no coincidence when it comes to time.

Thirty birthdays we celebrated together but apart. So much happiness conceived in one single day. I would give anything to go back and celebrate with you from the very start.

We will spend more birthdays together than we will have spent them apart; now that I’ve found you and now that you are my heart.


We are written into being as we write out loud. We are published poets, songwriters, story tellers, now.

I am wrapped up in our story book that we have authored. Pages wrapped in smudged lead from your left hand and coffee drips. A binding inked with poetry that occasionally slips from your lips.

I’m laying here smiling as chapters burst into existence with every tiny sigh in your breath. Reading every nuance of your body sprawled out messily in our bed.

We are my favorite book to read. Again and again and again.