asphalt & smoke

there is kindness in the unknown. there is fear and joy and pain but above all there is kindness, waiting for you just beyond the edge of the void. what if the unknown isn’t there to swallow you? what if it desperately wants to hold your hand? what if your fingers fit perfectly?

It's not well known that fog can burn. The longer your exposure, the stronger your resistance; the more you inhale, the more fireproof your lungs. In the right conditions, you can snap and see sparks. I know this because I recently singed my fingertips—my favorite coastal hazard.

once, we were strangers; once, we were electricity in cables spanning hours and states and stardust; once, I felt your blood move in tandem with mine; once, once, once

the space between us is filled with flowers

open up enough to know that you're hollow

“You can spend the entire second half of your life recovering from the mistakes of the first half.” Saul Bellow Seize the Day, 1956

I loved you with a violence so profound and beautiful it made an entire year stand still inside two October weeks

woke up in the dead of night because I know you lied to me

I hope you know that even though everything’s different, maybe it’s not. I hope you know there’s still starlight in your hallway, still glowing under your door. I hope you know you’re still home to me, and I can find my way back whenever you graze a constellation on your way out.

I came to see how the world looks without me is it all you thought it'd be? living in loving memory do you think we'd be friends when we were younger?

San-Francisco, 1981, Bernard Plossu.

i know you hate me. come and kiss me.

What you hear is an echo, what you feel is a memory.

tainted you with the taste of myself. my body, my blood, mine.

Keyhole in the trunk halfway up the tree. Keyhole in the featureless concrete wall at the edge of town. Keyhole in the underwater cave. Keyhole in the mirror, but only on the other side. Keyhole in the dark cloud on the horizon, but something is in this keyhole, and it is turning

for years my tarot cards rarely talked about anything other than what was once ours: the lakes, the tarmac, the poetry in the hollow of your throat. but lately they’ve changed—now when I turn them they simmer, low and slow, and I hear the murmur of a louisiana summer in my ears.

a whole year later

I know you’re still there but really you’ve been gone for so long, and I swear I’ll miss you until the stars burn out