For the first time in our lives, I’m somewhere she can’t find, and I don’t have the map to give her that leads to me.

The architecture of my sister's thinking, now phantom. I fall down stairs that are nothing but air.

I have an impulse to write all over the orange walls- I need an alphabet of endings ripped out of books, of hands pulled off of clocks, of cold stones, of shoes filled with nothing but wind.

For the first time in our lives, I’m somewhere she can’t find, and I don’t have the map to give her that leads to me.

Let me just unsubscribe to my own mind already, because I don't get any of it.

I didn't know love felt like this, like turning into brightness.

When he plays all the flowers swap colors and years and decades and centuries of rain pour back into the sky