Time behaves strangely when your heart is on pause. This poem is for the days that stretch, the seasons that fold into one another, and the windows we stare out of while we wait for a different kind of weather.
This Room Has No Clocks
The Candle’s Been Lit All Along
I’m not searching. I’m preparing. There’s a quiet kind of hope in making space for love without needing to chase it. Here’s a poem for the ones who tend the hearth without knowing who they’re waiting for.
The Middle is Still Blank
A poem about rewriting love stories while waiting for the surprise ending.
Before we write a love story together, I’ve written a few of my own – always stopping just before the part where you appear. Not because I don’t believe in you. But because some stories deserve to arrive unplanned. This is one of them.
Monday Made Me Do It 