He sees her from afar. How strange to see her from outside of things. The flaws that he could not ignore are, from this distance, vanished. ...
They always say these things can come back, of course. That it is not buried, just cast out like a shadow. Trailing you and yours. And lik...
It was the last of three summers together. In some ways, it was the best summer – gone the uncertainty of that first, halting season,...
'That space, which shaped me and defined me and turned me into what I am, has closed up behind me and there is no going back.' ...
The mud and the juice under your fingernails, sliding down your forearms. The quarter-sized slivers of skin filling the trash can...
I want to write today, dearly. But my heart is not having it. My heart, so often, seems to fall flat, to weaken and dull when I need it to b...
I feel that I write you far too often. I also feel that my letters don't often have a purpose beyond my own existential machinations;...
Aya Sofia is there, across the water, shrouded in the haze that blankets this city. The gulls form a pestilence behind the boat, little scar...
The air today smelled so much like Philadelphia. Spring. Cut grass and blossoming trees, the city shivering free of winter, exalted with sun...
Her plane comes over the trees, so distant and small as to resemble a bird that forgot to migrate, a lost bird stranded for the winter, dyin...
A dour pewter morning after a night of dense rain. She goes for a run but her body is not willing; legs like cinder, heart like a drum. She ...
I was talking to myself the other day the way I often do, talking to myself about love. Trying to figure the thing out. How it comes about, ...
He takes breakfast late on Sundays, alone. It is the end of summer, the summer in which the absence of pain stopped being a surprise and ...
Your room is cluttered with leaves the way a yard is cluttered with books. Some are raked into precipitous piles in corners and under tree...
It is difficult to believe that as you move through a sultry thick night like this that somewhere, not far off, there is the boy the age you...
We have come to a threshold, maybe crossed over. Like gawky newlyweds. We are no longer the people we once thought we were, which is to say,...
Stray observations The morning ablutions. Frail light married to grass, and dew the final refuge of night, which is lingering and slow to di...
Morning, and a high bluff meadow, sun-saturated. He moves like a scythe through the tall, unfettered grasses until he comes upon an embankme...
