You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
In a dream you are never eighty.
The joy that isn't shared dies young.
I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.