prose poem

Being a bookseller was more about noticing all of the quiet, and hushed fleeting moments, ones that lasted seconds but were cherished forever, the tiny pockets of beauty and joy hidden within the pages that is the love for books.

By 8 a.m. I was in the dentist’s chair, / Shaking hands with people in scrubs.

Letters of Curses (why God, why?). Letters sent to Churches (I guess I’ll trust in Him for Her, sigh). Letters I spied from my little eye (the first letter of her name, on your Spotify).

You have yourself — intact, whole — and you have me — twisted and turned into a second-hand version that vaguely resembles you. A spare, of sorts. The world is dangerous, so it’s good to have spares.

A gentle white tip nipped at my fin and beckoned me further down. Morays and snowflake eels seldom darted out of crevices and accompanied the symphony of motion. It wasn’t long until I became one with this ocean. 

Slumber song “sung to infants.” Sing as to lull goodnight. Song spun from “lull” + “good-bye.” From “lull" (verb) as in...

We’ll look for Polaris, kiss, and sway in the grass. We’ll hope on a comet, I’ll tell you about my wish, and you’ll get embarrassed, red as Mars.