read things i wrote.
You were the mystery novel I chose from the bookshelf to get lost in for a spell. Your cover promised intrigue, and, like every good crime, a puzzle to be solved; clues scattered through, sinister suspects like ghosts flitting in and out of your pages, pretending to be the answer.
Tuesday morning was cold like a good stainless-steel whiskey stone and had a bite to it like a good whiskey.
I ducked into my trench coat collar, my one defense against the relentless gusts trilling a banshee chorus, as I braved the blistering trek from Altima door to strip-mall storefront.
i learned to ride a bike the way we all do:
you, running beside me, one hand on my back,
other hand with mine, gripping the handles.
It’s a rainy day on the first of the month and I’m sitting here writing about failure, and i couldn’t be more optimistic about the whole thing.
Because filling in the blanks is the scariest part.