These aren’t poems, not exactly.
They're dispatches. Check-ins.
Live blogs from the inside of wanting something rare and reckless and real.
Sometimes they’re love notes with a shot clock.
Sometimes they’re elegies for a Tuesday.
Most are just me trying to hold still long enough to name the feeling—
before she changes it again.
You'll find late-night texts turned stanza,
sports metaphors stretched until they confess something truer,
and enough emotionally suspicious flights to raise flags at TSA.
I write because I can’t not.
Because she keeps showing up in the quiet between jokes.
Because counting days is more bearable when I turn them into something I can reread.
So no, not poems.
Ramblings.
More or less.
