I don’t know if I’m reaching backward in the anniversary edition so much as listening to my younger self reach forward.
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September is road trip season, always a time of travel, of movement, of flux.
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It has always been a tenuous thing, your ability to tolerate your surroundings.
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Every street in Paris is layered in songs. Every street in Paris is layered in ghosts.
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When they told me he was going, I thought, I will never be loved like this again, and I am only twenty-two.
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Applying for an MFA is not a simple thing. It is a force of willpower. It is an Olympian battle.
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Call this bridge, meeting place. Call it, mosque. Call it, and it will call back.
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When night came, we were shepherded inside. Too many animals. Too many hungry trees.
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I stopped writing. Okay. Yes. But say instead, the world ended. Say instead, lobotomy.
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When I think of my piano, I always picture an open lid, the keys collecting a shallow pool of the yellow light.
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