something beautiful.

windy highway drives. Sunday afternoons in April. falling asleep to the sound of rain.

Morning sounds

  • early birds
  • a kettle about to boil
  • distant sirens
  • a beating heart and worried voices. I wish we would all stop worrying and see that the world is beautiful.

Saturday afternoons with you

solving little wooden puzzles
and drinking cold-brewed tea.
there was never a more
perfect way to be.

I used to tiptoe out of my room as a kid, to listen at my parents’ bedroom door for signs of whispered arguments. Sometimes I still do. Who would let their child grow up like this? There’s too much fear in the world. When did everything become so


indistinguishable whispers.

staring out the window into the darkness,
as endless black vines creep along its edges
and crosshatched lines glisten
faint silver linings.
whether moonlight or mould,
who will ever know?

I used to embroider secret messages
into the stitching
where your soul met your dreams,
telling you stories of how I was afraid
that the world would
swallow me whole.

the night stares blatantly back,
a monster escaping from the clutches of darkness.
a disease, heedlessly clawing toward the surface.
a mirror image in my eyes, searching for
a pound of flesh,
an inherently defiant nature.

where do I belong?
where do I belong?

Sometimes I fly.

When I looked out the window, there was a single layer of clouds that covered the entire city. It was another world above those clouds; a suddenly sunny day that had been preceded by hints of rain only moments ago on the runway. Would you live in a castle in the clouds with me?

I watched the world like a minuscule board game below me, cars meandering along highways like game pieces. At night, city lights sprawled across the landscape like a pointillism painting and neighbouring stars said hello. I could almost discern the answer to all of my questions in their abstract meaning.

Maybe I could leave entire cities behind in minutes, watching lightning light up the night sky below. Maybe I just wanted to tell you all of these things, about the planes and the clouds, the suitcase carts and the biology student who drove me to the airport.

Anyway, the point was just to say I miss you.

you, my child of light.

hey. can we stay still for a moment?
I think the world must be passing me by.
I want to hold you still like a promise in the night,

fluttering silent butterfly wings,
making wishes on stars we can’t see.
we can talk about adventures we have in our sleep.
be quiet with each other under a tree.

(this was never meant to be poetry.)

time is slipping through my fingers like stardust. I am a subway train rushing toward the sight of the sun.

what is love known by?
she said, “when it is hard to say goodbye.”

Sometimes I just want to call you and say, “Sorry I yelled at you. On a completely unrelated note, you’re a wonderful, brilliant, magical human being and I love you.” I admit it lacks a certain grace and articulation, but sometimes I just want to tell you what’s on my mind and let you take it in in your own beautifully graceful manner.


This house is thick with voices telling stories about the past. They create a clamour, a wave that moves past me as if I’m not there. I’m in the present and you’re in the past and we don’t listen to each other, we never listen to each other. Our conversations are discordant noises muffled by heavy air. I’m a foreign object dodging ghosts and this house is an artifact living in its stories. It’s like waking up from a convoluted dream that felt like a nightmare but there was nothing scary about it. I said thank you to the driver when I got off the bus today. He gave me a funny look and I realized afterward that he probably hadn’t heard me over the clamour. The air swallows my voice before it even leaves my lips. When I talk, I can’t hear a thing.

We are looking at each other through the dark with firelight eyes, listening to each other’s disjoint thoughts. Haphazardly doesn’t even begin to describe it.

I have to believe that when we break we don’t lose the pieces, and one day we find the courage to put them back together. Some days we’re terrible people with good moments. and some days we’re good people with tragic moments.

We are ever falling and rising like smoke, never staying in one place, never contained in one thought. My emotions are written on little coloured notes and pinned to my heart. I hold a few of them in my hands, sometimes they’re hard to handle.

We could cover the walls of an entire room with our thoughts, we could drape our souls over bookshelves and let them soak up the stories. We could dance on clouds. We could gather dust. I have to believe there will be good moments.

There are some moments when I picture myself standing in an empty room. Not really even a room. Just an empty space. I’m standing on something and nothing at the same time, I’m grounded and floating. There’s nothing in the world besides white desert sand and the deathly silence of an airport elevator.

There are moments when I have to stop. I’m sorry that I’ve forgotten myself. I’ve been left stranded in a desert valley somewhere while someone else acts out my part. I tell myself that I have to stop, I have to leave right now. I return to that empty space and fill it with the important things. Words lots of words new words that perfectly encompass an intangible thought. Punctuation when I feel like it. Music, dreams. A wall to lean on when the burden gets just a little too heavy. Warmth for my eternally bare feet. There’s nothing in the world I need to think about besides what’s here.

If I was sixteen and you were throwing rocks at my window at 3 in the morning, I’d sneak out with you to explore the dark side of the moon or the surface of the sun, or just to take a walk in a quiet town - your choice. Even now, there’s always a list of strange and meaningless things I’m dying to tell you. Number one on the list (although the list is in no particular order): you can hear the sound of spring rain in a lecture hall of a thousand students typing on their keyboards. Sometimes, if you stop to notice the wonderful and peculiar things, life becomes a little less overwhelming.

These days I stand in the desert and watch the sky. It’s the only way I know not to lose myself.