Egg hums, shell cracks wings wet spiral-wrap bird born to stillness.   Stillness shifts to twitch  both scratches and causes the itch.   Itch brings words swaddled with wings. Words that strive toward wonder— ideas are flutter-life, bird sings,   Sings, then stops, lost in thought murk and muddle, blocks the flux Fingers blindly search for nativity   Nativity waits till the star emerges Huddles in shards of shell until wings unfurl  bright words line up on the wire.   Wire of

There is a certain time of day I call the in-between.   The sun is still there, and yet it has already begun to descend.   I love this hour because nothing feels final.   Not day. Not evening.   The light shifts. The day exhales.   For a moment, I am not reaching for what comes next.   It feels like crossing time zones midair, where two realities exist at once.   I have lived here before.   Between diagnosis and acceptance. Between goodbye and silence. Between the woman I was

Your words chosen oh so carefully.   Beautifully. “I want to know you. Tell me anything and everything.”   Recklessly. “Let’s move away from here. We can start over, somewhere warmer.”   You led me down the most romantic path saying, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”   I smiled all the way thinking there would be flowers, diamonds, and a stroller at the end. But it only led to slaughter.   Two cuts: first shallow— “I don’t feel the same,” then deep— “No, we ca

Where is one to go when love has departed? When breath wavers, my throat tightens, and only despair fills my lungs?   My wounds burn with saltwater grief— it always comes in waves. Unlike the tide, it doesn’t recede quickly. I grit my teeth in the sting. I will remain by the water.   Pacing the dock by day, sitting atop the lighthouse by night. The shore is now my home. Here I may be found, while I wait for love’s return.   His voyage long, his journey hard fought. His soul w