You start with a darkness to move through but sometimes the darkness moves through you.

Just because we have birds inside us, we don't have to be cages.

There are no ordinary feelings. Just as there are no ordinary spring days or kicked over cans of paint.

Hark, dumbass, the error is not to fall but to fall from no height. Don't fall off a curb, fall off a cliff.

I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping.

You want happy endings, read cookbooks.

You are made of bent coat hangers, honey, gravel, epoxy and handstands. I am made of lying on the floor, the same song on repeat.