okay,

eert sgorf.

I`m not quite certain how many know about love. Okay, not love, but love. I mean the doesn`t make any sense, confusing, crystal, hurting, freeing sort of love that can happen when someone loves you back. And the sky could rain for years if it meant there`d be no way to muddle back home if that`s what it took.

But that`s not what I mean to say, really. What I mean to say is this. Love is curious. In the words of someone some one else knows, "it is one of the things I am most curious about." No, no, no. Love hurts. At worst, you harm them. At best, they sabotage you. They trick you so you fall &you`ll be damned if there`s any way out of it.

What to do:
Some times it is best to hold on tight, tight, tightly. To press them up against your heart &hold them there until their ragged breathing turns to match the shallow beating of your own.
Other times you hold them close, press your foreheads together for a while &let go.
Some times they do not come back.
But some times they do.

I have heard that tenderness often goes underestimated in this world. I have heard that the faithfull are few and far between. I have let go & held on, loving poorly. Slowly, I have learned the art of ferocious love, defeating and redeeming gentleness.
"You are a fighter," he says knowingly. Perhaps I am. For now, or when the time calls for such a ferocity. Like a lion cub baring her little pin-point teeth, pouncing in the grass. In every blade of grass...

But one day I will hold those bones so tightly, till the beats match, and press foreheads together. Then I will let go.

&love you back.

we are not sexy or beautiful or rich,
but we are cute.
we are good and we are simple
&we are pure.

we know how many balls are in a strike
strikes outs, hits runs.

corra casa.

on eating old birthday cake.

"i know i`m not sposed to miss you guys like this: rubbing two stones together in my hands, between my fingers before throwing them out, out, out into the water of a made-up lake. and i know it`s only been a few hours since i`ve been standing here, toes on the shore`s lines; close enough, but not quite enough to feel the water`s quiet tongues gently lapping. but to just all sit around for a few years, living off of old birthday cake and lukewarm water, dying tulips &penciled-in cows..."

the little things

bologna, italy.

to: all

2 days, pigeons.

amateur cartography.

he held my face in his hands like a first-time explorer grips the page:
turning it this way &that, up &down, read it left to right.
he followed the lines with his fingers
to the corners of my grinning cheeks &crinkled eyes.
stopped.
stared intently into the newly formed lakes,
hot brown on soggy paper.
sighed, marked the spot with red marker and
gently started to crumple the map.