I think of lovers as trees, growing to and from one another searching for the same light, my mothers laughter in a dark room, a photograph greying under my touch, this is all I know how to do, carry loss around until I begin to resemble every bad memory, every terrible fear, every nightmare anyone […]More
First of her name. Voracious consumer of the arts. Scriber of meticulously mulled over book reviews & genre defying fiction. Reciter of stirring mirror speeches.