He was a poet -oh all men are when they’re in love.

Fuck words, nothing spokencomprehends the defiantly ephemeral.I take my incompleteness with the rest, an exilein any language.

I would like to write a suicide note in three and a halflanguagesand travel south on a Thursday towardssome form of life outside of earth

Forgetting: that, too, was the heart’s slow way of healing, but it could only be done alone. Love and loss turns us into the most solitary of creatures, their mysteries can never entirely be shared.

Let her remain where she is. A constellation away.

I’ll remember your apocalypse if you’ll remember mineIt will be a holiday of the senses

My angels are jellyfish,electric, nearly invisible,armed with poisoned harpoons.My archangels are yellow tang.They feed on sunlight.They speak through color.Anything in their paths turns blind.