Writing love letters to dead friends.
I still get caught sleeping.
There was nothing, there was nothing, there was nothing, then there was you.
If I say I was in love with her, is it because I was or because I'm looking for sympathy?
I'm elegiac of the women I don't meet, nostalgic for the memories we never made.
Do you remember the things you burned?
I'm trying to move from bitterness to generosity.
There will be glass in the fruit before this is over.
Burn your birdhouse down.