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.

Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.

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

Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.

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

I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.