You come to me again, 
 this time in the night, this time 
 seeking autumn 
 for the green of your leaves. 
 And I am October for you. 
 I am October until you fall 
 wet upon the ground of my lips.

When someone tells you, “I love you,” and then you feel, “Oh, I must be worthy after all,” that’s an illusion. That’s not true. Or someone says, “I hate you,” and you think, “Oh, God, I knew it; I’m not very worthy,” that’s not true either. Neither one of these thoughts hold any intrinsic reality. … Continue reading

Waiting here in this little room to be taken back for an upper GI. I get to see what my insides look like. The barium that I have to drink taste like chalk mixed with milk (not looking forward to that).