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

love was never meant to bejust a metaphorbetween the pages of poetry.

leave me a smilejust warm enough...to spend a milliongolden afternoons in.

we are all like poems. some of us rhyme. some don’t. some are Pulitzer prizessome are just scribblesand yet, we all possessa special kind of beautythat can either heal or cut to the boneone that can never quitebe fathomed, nor forgotten.

the sapphire depthof my own love...startlesand warmsand wounds my soul.

Poems are invisible flowers on my skin.

everything that is scatteredcomes together in wordseverything that is lostcomes back in poetry.

The most beautiful, amazing and inevitable fact about life- Everything has a natural healing process.

love canembellish its beginningsing its blossomingand engrave its eternitiesbut can never explain its loss.