On Desire.

We wrote our dreams down on little pieces of paper, folded them up and set them ablaze. That smoke is still the air I breathe settled deep within my burning lungs.  

The Earth Itself.

She smells of the earth, not the pretty earth: lavender, roses, lilacs and peonies, but of the earth itself: flesh caked in dirt, salt and the rain.  

This Woman.

"You could be married". She said this as if I was not aware as if I did not know that in some parallel universe I was walking around, stomach swollen, with a wailing toddler on my hip. Of course, I knew - this woman - I longed to save, but it was her or I. I …