Why do we look like all the great loves? he asks as we fall asleep.


I love this man.




Why must I have an office job instead of being at my grimy soft studio apartment next to the one I love?


I should be churning out writing while he churns out art…




We are not meant to be in tall buildings, inside small offices.

But I have health insurance


We are not meant to have nature as an unattainable thing you can watch through frosted glass.

But we have a courtyard with cacti.


We are not meant to ingest 8 cups of coffee a day.

I bring creamer I got on sale cause no one here deserves good things.


We are meant to do everything BUT that.


I drive through Los Angeles and its May Gray.

A soft pillow of clouds hugs its skyscrapers.

Everyone is in a hurry, pretending to have their shit together.

They probably work in a fucking office.


No sign of heat anywhere and that concerns me.

This time last year my father was dying and the heat was unforgiving.

Hours were spent inside clinic cafeterias.

In pews by the information desk.

In hard chairs taking soft naps.

Screaming heroin addicts.

Holes drilled in my father’s head.

Hospital Arias.

A symphony of catheters.



This year is different.

I died and died and got my lungs handed back to me.

Got my heart chewed and wrapped in soft fur.

A breath of fresh air.

Poisonous in its danger, but healing in its power.


This is wedding season I’ve heard say.

Time to exchange chaos and make promises of both love and disappointment but love nonetheless.

A promise of forever. A forever that lasts as long as you do.


Lately, my death anxiety has been replaced with an eagerness to live.

To remember why I’m breathing.

The thought of him helps.

Our love is ancient.




It is everything sacred, innocent and genuine.

I miss him.


Time to go home.


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