the missed spaces, the missed places, the missed times, the missed rhymes, the missed persons I could have been or will be, the fear that restricts me, the choices that elate me, the food that prolongs, the life that kills and opens and winds up and scares and tears and screws, inspires and heightens and pitches and rolls and drowns and crowns and takes hold of and molds and breaks and pours into and empties and burns.

and here we steal away together

recorded 5.2.18

Water breaks. I am born. I move into the air. Into this here and now.

The heart breaks. I continue on. I learn how to continue on. I put pieces together in the places I believe they belong. In the only way I know how.


I try to love again. I want to love again.

I put my heart back together, hastily, vigorously. I do not look at the breaks. I do not want to look at the breaks.

I did not look at the space between the pieces.

I would not look at the space between the pieces.

My heart breaks again and again and again. It falls easily apart. With a blow or with a light tap, it falls apart. I see, it falls apart, always in the same way. A jigsaw puzzle.


I hold your hand. I hold my hand. I hold my heart. In my hand I look at the pieces of my heart. I look at the breaklines. And I look at the shapes. Each its own continent. Each its own world.

I lay the pieces out. I move my gaze to each edge. Only in comparison to eachother do I understand the way they fit together.

I close my eyes. I run my fingers along edges. I touch the angle of each break. I feel the way one edge mirrors its match. I find and I feel, two surfaces which parallel one another. And I bring them together.

I close my eyes to heal my heart. I am a spider. A finger paints each breakline with one single strand of web. I hold the pieces together, until, I wait, until they fuse. Caressing each break. Painting each break. Fusing each break. Slow, inquisitive, patient, with trust, with love. I turn to myself, with intuition, with desire, with a need to love. With love I mend my own heart.

I hold a shape in my hands. An egg. I trace my fingers along miniscule lines. Lines that tell a story. Lines that draw a scene. Lines that speak my name. Breaklines are the veins of my heart.

I open my eyes. In my hand. My heart. A translucent orb, beating with an angular, golden pattern. I turn my heart over and over and over. A spider’s web envelopes my heart and glistens like the edge of a cloud, backlit by the sun.

recorded 13.2.18

recorded 15.1.18