i writebecauseit is the only wayi can reach you.

when i write of you, my deari am holding youin the most exquisiteways.

You should be more carefulwhen you move, my dearwhat with you...spilling moonlightinto my poem, with a mereflick of your hand.

some poems frothand foam and rise...out of my morning cup ofmist-sweetened coffee.

How....will I ever truly depict you?You’re perfect, my writing isn’t.

sometimes i wake upin the middleof the nightand findpoetry splatteredall over my bed.

my poetry is merely a body.you are the soul in my words.