I hope that someday when I am gone, someone, somewhere, picks my soul up off of these pages and thinks, "I would have loved her.

She will blaze through you like a gypsy wildfire. Igniting you soul and dancing in its flames. And when she is gone, the smell of her smoke will be the only thing left to soothe you.

And that is the nature of us poets and whores, to make things hard: dicks, choices... life.

I am a lover of words and tragically beautiful things, poor timing and longing, and all things with soul, and I wonder if that means I am entirely broken, or if those are the things that have been keeping me whole.

Life is just a slide. Back and forth between loving and leaving, remembering and forgetting, holding on and letting go.

And you look more beautiful when you blush.