Photo Credit: knightrazor at

I’m not sure who I am
but I know I love you.

I’m not sure of
my movements,
my thoughts,
my choices,
but I’m sure I love you.

Through the pain
and years
and loneliness,
I’ve been lost and confused,
but I’ve always been sure of
my love for you.

No matter what happens
in this whirlpool
of a sunrises and starry skies,
I’ll always be sure I love you.

~ Patience 


To Be

Photo Credit: veftenie at

I wanted you to be more,
to be this image,
this fictional character
I had concocted.

I wanted you to be
strong and perceptive,
sweet and lonely,
someone who could
save me
from the tattered world
in which I wandered,

but you weren’t those things.

You were you,
someone I didn’t know,
someone who
smelled a bit the same,
looked a little familiar,
but the differences
added up to stranger.

It’s dangerous
to see people
as more than what they are,
to see them as we want them to be.

I imagined a dream,
a reckless and beautiful magic,
but you were just a boy,
and I wanted you to be a hero.

~ Patience 



Happy Birthday 

I often wonder
what you remember,
which moments you relive
when you think of us,
which stills stayed
all this time.

Today, I remembered the last day.

The drive near the ocean,
windows down,
my arm pressing back
against the wind
while guitar music
floated out of the speakers.

It was that one song,
the one that played today
while I drove through the sun,
my arm surfing on the wind,

that brought me to you
and that day,
the last day,

where the sky was
impossibly blue
and the music played
and you loved me.

I missed you,
remembered you,
and wondered
if you’re happy
and if I’ll ever
be happy
without you.


Today is your birthday, and I’ve written to you every year on this day. I wonder what you’re doing and if your day is full and satisfying. My birthdays never are. They are lonely and melancholy, but I hope you found some joy today. I wrote you a letter, a real letter, and I’ve been carrying it around for a few weeks, wondering if I should send it. It’s been four years since you decided to disappear completely from my world, four years since you blocked me, told me it was better to forget than to continue in this agony, but I’m still in it, still broken, still needing one more conversation to ask you all the things I forgot to ask. The letter asks for closure even though I know I will never stop loving you. And I know the letter won’t matter. I know it will cause you to self-destruct again. I know it’s selfish because you’ve tried to let me go. I wonder how successful you’ve been. I know you won’t respond. You never do. You never will. It’s a lost cause and so am I, but I love you all the same. Happy birthday, Johnny. I miss you. I always will.




Summer Love

Photo Credit: Val-Mont at

Her white thighs
stuck to the black upholstery
that had been baking
under Florida’s sun,
and she scrunched up her nose
at the sudden shock of it.

The car was hot
but she was hotter,
and he couldn’t take
his eyes away.


This was written in response to the Wicked Word Wednesday prompt, upholstery. I tried the 42 word bonus challenge. At least i think there are 42 words. Enjoy!




The Shedding of Pieces 

Photo Credit: detail24 at

The things we leave behind
are also the things we carry.

We slough off
the people and places
we outgrow,
shake free
from stale ideas
and antique dreams,

yet these fragments
we try to lose
are the scaffolding
on which we

Without the shedding of pieces,
we would not be ourselves,
so we keep,
we carry,
we remember
the moments which created us

all while learning how to let go.


This was written in response to the Daily Post prompt, the things we leave behind. Enjoy!




Sweet Desolation 

Photo Credit: groby at

They always come back eventually.

They wander in and wait
for their ghosts
to destroy me,
or they sit there
wrapping themselves
in glass blankets
made from the wreckage
I’ve created.

Either way,
we are both shattered,
broken beyond fixing,
yet we pick up our pieces,
what’s left of our

and come back again,
wait in line
to do it all over,
to reach up
and taste
that sweet desolation
one more time.




Bones and Blood

Photo Credit: Moiscen at

If my bones could talk,
they would beg you to listen,
to speak so that they may hear
and know relief
from the ache
that’s whitewater rafting
down their insides,
from the missing that eats away
at their fragile structures
until nothing remains
but ashen dust.

If my blood could talk,
it would ask you
for one more touch
so it could burn again,
so it could feel
the rush of fire under skin,
of love in phoenix form
while begging to run cold,
to shake free of the heat
your fingers raise.

If my eyes could talk,
they would crave another look,
another glance at your
shadowed silhouette
against a sunset sky,
and all the while
they’d beg
to never see your face again,
to forget the slant of your jaw
so that they could see the world again.

If my heart could talk,
it would call out
every word I’ve scratched
onto these screens,
every line I’ve sent out
into the night
hoping they’d find your eyes.

If you would listen,
you’d hear
every part of my body,
every atom in my being
screaming out how I need you.




You’ve Forgotten

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You’ve officially forgotten.

It’s been four years
since you’ve seen a picture
of my face,
four years since you’ve
needed to,
wanted to,
and I wonder
if it’s been as easy
as you make it look.

I watch for you every day,
even though you are
years and miles and oceans
I hope to see your face
jump out of the masses,
your smile crooked and sweet.

But you’ve forgotten
the taste of my lips,
the timbre of my voice,
even as I revel
in the memory of yours.



Invisible Shadows 

I picked you up,
but you were already gone–
already gray with time,
dusty with forgetfulness,
and I wondered
when you had become so lost,

so torn and broken
that even love
couldn’t save you.

And your lifeless skin
laid bare across
my own staunch
chilling slumber
that whites out
my eyes,
and justifies
all the lies
that carried us here.

Your silence
still startles
the taut flesh
gripping my bones,
and you stir up my pieces
as if they were real,
as if some magic
had filtered through
the vast doldrums

of what lies in front,
shadowing all that is behind.

for a mind
out of town
doesn’t leave
the lights on
long enough to
enamor the neighbors,
or piss away
the repository
of memory –

those precious pools
of thought.
but this was
more than apathy–
than stout emptiness.

It was all that had slipped
so carelessly
through our stretched fingers,
through time we tossed aside
until someone else noticed
the vast caverns
forming below our skin,
until the ghosts
became shadows that
stuck instead of haunted.

A sickly,
existence climbing
the walls of insanity…


This piece is a collaboration between myself and Christopher Rupley. He is an amazing writer and a great friend. Go check out his blog.

~ Patience 



One of Them

Photo Credit: musicandphotography at

I’ve always wanted to be
one of those girls,
the ones who men
write songs about.
Those mysterious girls
with raven hair and raven eyes.
The ones who walk through life
on wings instead of feet,
so beautiful,
the air even stays
just to tangle in her hair.

I’ve always wanted to be
one of those girls,
the ones with flowers on her head
or bells around her neck,
the ones who seem
to dance through rooms
on the way to an invisible party
that coalesces in her presence.

I want to have
glitter in my eyes,
starlight on my skin.
I want to be the girl
who you write songs about,
but instead
I’m just the girl
who writes poetry about you.