I'm not finding the right words today, to tell you about I learned to fish from my father. I was 3 or 4 and the cast net was the biggest thing I had seen. I keep putting it off, reading my thesaurus, reciting old poems to myself and blinking back to the screen. It was so dark, and the stars so clear. Do you do that, when the story tugs too tightly? I'm fighting it, but it comes in spurts to spite me.

That song came on while I was in the shower. I caught myself just seconds before I toothbrushed my armpit. I had to stick my fingers down the drain to fish out my earring. Then, the water went cold. Just as I reached to turn the faucet off, I remembered the towels were still in the dryer. Still, I'm blaming these tears on the soap in my eyes.

She woke up because she heard the trees whispering. She was confused at first, but then she realized, they were too. They had never found someone who had heard their stories, their questions. They told her what they'd seen - the couple that never left the tent - giggling through the night, the girl who was lost, the man who turned the gun on himself. She told them about love, about fear, about jokes, and sex, about loneliness and desperation. When dawn came and everything fell quiet again, she… Continue

I keep remembering that time we drove the beach in the mid of winter to watch the sunrise. I think we both knew it was over then, but those moments, when it was just us and the seagulls, they let us keep pretending. I want to tell you I'm sorry, but I'm not sure it's true. Instead, I tell you about the weather here, and my new t-shirt. Because if I let you go, I'm afraid the memories will fall away as well, like those grains of sand I so casually shook from my hair. But I guess we both know,… Continue