Even a painful longing is some form of presence.

I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.

The way a source strains toward the light, toward the air. Its laboring work, its effort, its black passageways like despair. That’s the way a poet looks for words. With muscles, gestures.

I write in order to comprehend, not to express myself.

We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.

There are things better left untouched by words.

I am that which lies beyond time. Like a melody, which sounds completely only after the last note is played.