A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin.
I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
I collect men with interesting names.
August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.