Honeymooning is a novel concept to me. In my life, I think I’ve only met two or three couples who were enjoying what the Germans call “flitter weeks.” Maybe that’s because I’ve never lived in a scenic locale that’s both memorable and Instagram-worthy (to let my bias out for a walk, my hometown’s beach is one of the nicest in the world. I’d much rather go to Pensacola than Miami, but whatever). I can’t cast stones, though, considering that my honeymoon takes me across the ocean to have my bags checked in Portugal before being delivered to the scenic views of Vienna’s MuseumQuartier.
love
Poem #15
when i saw the trumpeter blow / the horn, my jericho heart came down, / moved from flesh to fluid.
Poem #13
Your head is a Lazy Susan / spinning busy, out of control / like the wheels of time grinding / you down
Poem #12
we linger on your hangnails, / preparing to be chewed away.
Poem #10
There’s something in your sleeping breath / that reminds me of a hermit crab gathering
Poem #8
Wood smoke cannot be contained, / though persuaded to linger / in the slope of your shoulder
An Unapologetic, Sappy Post About Friendship, Love & All That Other B.S.
When I remember my childhood, it always feels like fall. Let's not dwell on the fact that I grew up in Florida and that it was below 75 for about three weeks a year. For some reason, I remember doing arts in crafts in the front room of my best friend's house with a bunch of other girls while we waited for Girl Scouts to start. It's always fall. If that's not a season of nostalgia, I don't know what is.