the musings of a poet

  • the end(less)

    We spoke weather and wine,
    While I said I was fine,
    As she offered me baskets of bread.

    It was torn with her hands,
    Split, ripped, and bland,
    Butter splayed on the edge of her mouth.

    Her words never ceased, 
    Crumbs of crust in her teeth, 
    I could hardly see anything else.

    Every word forced alive, 
    By her breath’s Holy Fire, 
    One by one, they burned their way out.

    Her thoughts came in halves, 
    Like unfinished drafts, 
    Each one collapsing mid-air.

    I tried to agree, 
    But she spoke over me, 
    A sermon of carbs and despair.

    When the check finally came, 
    The evening turned to a game, 
    She decided she’d already won.

    I waited, amused,
    Half proud and half used, 
    At her silence as my wallet came undone.

    I know when I stood, 
    Never again would we meed, 
    Some mercies arrive unspoken, 

    The bread was all gone, 
    Her spell was withdrawn, 
    And something in me still quite broken. 


  • The God of Her Unknowing

    I have not always admired the art of Unknowing.

    I mistook it for emptiness, the way one might confuse quiet water for still water, or stillness for the absence of life. I believed that to live without endless questions was to live without depth.

    I believed that curiosity was the proof of existence, and that anything left unexamined was something left unloved.

    Then there was her.

    She seemed built from the soft light that exists between thoughts. Wholly unconcerned with her incompletion. She moved through the world like a person unburdened by the need to interpret, touching life, and everything that lives inside it, without the need to know its name.

    I watched her, astonished, as she spoke a language I have never known and couldn’t understand.

    I watched her, reverently, as she built small altars of my unanswered questions and stood in front of them as she worshipped the god of all her Unknowing.

    So brief.
    So holy.
    So quiet.
    So still.

    And I, desperate to find meaning in everything, watched her turn mystery into worship while I turned worship into proof.

    Her wisdom lived in untouched places, where understanding had not yet tried to stake its claim. She knew that not every beauty is waiting to be named.

    But I lived like a scholar of the Sacred: cataloguing, dissecting, defining. I believed that once a thing could be explained, it would finally belong to me. That comprehension was as close to beauty as I will ever be able to touch.

    There, I shrank in the realm of dissonance because I wanted her to look at me with wonder. I wanted to feel her awe but she refused to study me and trace the edges of my need to be known.

    And for that, I resented her. I called her cruel and calloused and cold and vapid and arrogant. I called her anything that made her wrong, because she refused to burn beside me.

    Perhaps the only thing colder than her quiet was my insistence on explaining it.

    When she left, there was no fight.
    No pleading in the doorway.
    No bread crumbs to follow.

    Only the soft, steady sound of someone who had already made peace with what I refused to understand. I begged for closure when all I really wanted was another question to keep me alive.

    Now I think of her often.
    Not as she was, but as the ideas she left behind.

    I have not always admired the art of Unknowing. 

    I mistook it for emptiness, the way one might confuse quiet water for still water, or stillness for the absence of life. I believed that to live without endless questions as to live without depth. 

    I believed that curiosity was the proof of existence, and that anything left unexamined was something left unloved! 

    Then…there was her. 

    She seemed built from the soft light that exists between thoughts. Wholly unconcerned with her incompletion. She moved through the world like a person unburdened by the need to interpret, touching life and everything that lives inside it, without the need to know its name. 

    I watched her, astonished, as she built small altars out of all my unanswered questions and stood in front of them as she worshipped the god of all her Unknowing. 

    So brief.
    So holy.
    So quiet.
    So still.

    And I, desperate to find meaning in everything, watched her turn mystery into worship while I turned worship into proof. Her wisdom lived in untouched places, where understanding had not yet tried to stake its claim. She knew the that not every beautiful thing is waiting to be named. 

    But I lived like a scholar of the Sacred: cataloguing, dissecting, defining. I believed that once a thing could be explained, it would finally belong to me. That comprehension was as close to beauty as I will ever be able to touch. 

    There, I shrank in the realm of uncomfortable dissonance because I wanted her to look at me with wonder. I wanted to feel all the weight of her awe, yet she refused to study me and trace the edges of my need to be known.

    And for that I resented her.

    I called her cruel and calloused and cold and vapid and arrogant because Eshe refused to burn with curiosity beside me.

    I called her anything that made her wrong.

    Perhaps the only thing colder than her silence was my insistence on explaining it.

    When she left, there was no fight.
    No pleading in the doorway.
    No bread crumbs to follow.

    Only the soft, steady sound of someone who already made peace with what I refused to understand. I begged for closure when all I really wanted was another question to keep me alive. 

    Now I think of her often.
    Not as she was, but as the ideas she left behind.

    There are people who do not need to hold the world to feel its weight. There are souls who find their sanctity in uncertainty. She taught me, without meaning to, that the end of knowing is not ignorance or pride and that beauty does not depend on my comprehension of it. That understanding is not always the highest form of love; Sometimes, it is exactly what kills it. 

    My envy has since melted into holy reverence. 

    When I catch myself trying to name a moment before it’s finished, I stop. I let it live, wild and wordless. Because somewhere, she is worshipping the god of her Unknowing and maybe, at last, I’ve learned to kneel beside her.

  • the cat named Champagne

    I woke up earlier than usual today. The kind of early that feels like your body is unplugged from routine and all understanding. It felt like Time itself conspired with the white noise of the busy street below to wake me so that It might teach me something new. The sun hasn’t quite committed to the sky yet as I watch it trace the edges of my mug. The half-open notebook in front of me. The cat. 

    Champagne was already awake, of course. She always is. She has the quite confidence of something that’s never questioned its place in the world. She blinked at me when I woke, slow and regal, then turned back toward the window as if to say, “You’re late to the morning. Again.”

    I made coffee and watched the steam rise beside her. She didn’t move. She never rushes toward warmth the way I expect her to. She Never rushes towards anything at all; she let’s the world and all it’s gracious gifts come directly to her. I wish I understood that kind of patience.

    There’s something about cats that make me want to be observed by them. Not loved, necessarily, just…seen and deemed acceptable. Champagne has this way of lookin gat me like she’s taking inventory of my should and finding it mostly adequate. 

    It’s humbling…to say the least. 

    She sat in the window while I played a few notes on the trumpet, half-awake, half-remembering how to breathe properly. She didn’t flinch. Just listened, or maybe she didn’t. I can’t tell which. Either way, she made the moment feel worth opening up my journal and writing about.

    So here I am, writing about it. Sometimes the smallest, most unremarkable mornings make me feel like I’m living a life worth writing about. Maybe having a cat has tricked me into thinking stillness is an accomplishment. Champagne is asleep now, curled up in the exact same place she was when I woke up this morning.

    She looks so content.  Yes I’d say that’s an accomplishment all in itself. 

    I’m sitting beside her, pretending I understand her at all. 

  • Ligaments

    The soft invisible architecture that keeps everything tethered. The parts that no one praises in poems because they don’t sound romantic enough. 

    Bones make for better metaphors because they don’t move. They’re proof of what remains when life is long gone.

    Ligaments are the ones that strain quietly. They stretch, hold, tremble. They fail in silence. They die with us. We don’t feel their purpose until they give way. 

    I used to want to be the bone in someone’s story. Something strong, unshakeable, carved and clean. 

    But I’ve lived enough life to know that what actually matters is what holds things together.

    The in-between.

    The ligaments of a conversation. The tendon of a touch that meant more than it should have. The sinew of staying when you could have left. Should have left.

    I want to know what’s worth holding, and what deserves to come apart. Because strength, I think, is overrated. What matters is flexibility. The holy give of staying connected, teaching surrounding strength how to be held.