Three children lay on the rocks at the water's edge.A dark-haired girl, two boys, slightly older.This image is caught forever in my memory, like some fragile creature preserved in amber.

Poetry is adolescence fermented, and thus preserved.

Your heart beats between the palm of my hand.Its need to beOne with meDripsBetween my fingertipsAs I squeeze perfect drops of love into small receptacles to be preserved...For later. ☕️.

It was one of those things they keep in a jar in the tent of a sideshow on the outskirts of a little, drowsy town. One of those pale things drifting in alcohol plasma, forever dreaming and circling, with its peeled, dead eyes staring out at you and never seeing you. It went with the noiselessness of late night, and only the crickets chirping, the frogs sobbing off in the moist swampland. One of those things in a big jar that makes your stomach jump as it does when you see a preserved arm in a laboratory vat.

Your heart beats against the palm of my hand.Its need to beOne with meDripsBetween my fingertipsAs I squeeze perfect drops of love into small receptacles to be preserved...For later. ☕️.