A Letter I Have Not Sent

It was the second heartbeat that put my limbs into paralysis. I had already expected the first heartbeat. It was the reason I was in the doctor’s office in the first place. I was just there to confirm what I al...

I Am Excited For The Things That We Will Do Together

I am excited for the things that we will do together. I can’t think of any other set of words to describe what I am feeling right now in its truest, most real, and most human form, except for "I am excited for ...

The Timing

When I was in high school my father was probably the best track coach I’ve ever had, because he always helped me get out of my head. Being an accountant, a solid and logical man, he would just use math. He woul...

The Beautiful Mess

When I was growing up, I had no idea how emotionally composed and resilient my mom and dad were. In fact I’m not sure I’ll ever fully comprehend the stress they endured and the sacrifices they made so that they...

Can I Come Feel Terrible Next To You?

I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to write about it. I just want to sit here and feel it. Then, I want to look over and see you. The purity of your silent understanding soothes my invisible wounds.  ...

The Possibility Of You Has Become Distracting For Me

There are a lot of big bad things. The world is full of them.  They are smeared, and gray, and hovering over us. They hide behind suits, or masks, or collections of cells.  They lie in wait in envelopes and coo...

I Don’t Remember You

I Don't Remember You On Virginia Avenue Today I went for a long stroll around our neighborhood. I hadn't seen the light of day in quite some time, my feet had not pounded the pavement, my blood had been sittin...

How To Stare At A Brick Wall

There are four different shades of brick that I can see from the second-story window as I sit on your bed. The first is the oldest and brightest, a vermilion terracotta exoskeleton for the neighboring 19th cen...

15 Beginnings Of An Essay I Will Never Write

1. My mom used to take me to her psychiatrist appointments. I’d bring Pogs. I was nine. She’d leave me in the waiting room by a wooden bench and a table covered in back issues of The New Yorker. I was always...