time in grief passes differently five minutes can take an eternity to fill and an entire day can pass on one box of photographs I rarely know what day it is right now and how could that even matter when the light of my universe...

they say all we have is now but what if that is not enough I need my memories to sustain me in the now treasures of my past to lift me through difficult times to remind me I was loved that I am loved, still I need my dreams to...

you won’t have died, really till all of your ripples have played out… I’m grateful to be one of your ripples

as my pen touches paper and my tears spill out on the page as words I wonder to myself does anyone even want to read these tears freshly fallen from a private kind of grief that other people don’t even know and then I remember...

“Boredom, after all, is the most frequent feature of existence, and one wonders why it fared so poorly in the nineteenth-century prose that strived so much for realism.” – Joseph Brodsky, Less Than One   Summer’s the...

time in grief passes differently five minutes can take an eternity to fill and an entire day can pass on one box of photographs I rarely know what day it is right now and how could that even matter when the light of my universe...

they say all we have is now but what if that is not enough I need my memories to sustain me in the now treasures of my past to lift me through difficult times to remind me I was loved that I am loved, still I need my dreams to...

you won’t have died, really till all of your ripples have played out… I’m grateful to be one of your ripples

as my pen touches paper and my tears spill out on the page as words I wonder to myself does anyone even want to read these tears freshly fallen from a private kind of grief that other people don’t even know and then I remember...

“Boredom, after all, is the most frequent feature of existence, and one wonders why it fared so poorly in the nineteenth-century prose that strived so much for realism.” – Joseph Brodsky, Less Than One   Summer’s the...