The moon knows I am yours.

Wearing his clothes like they will heal me.

Every autumn, the earth grows cold, the leaves begin to die, and somewhere in my sleeping mind, I find you all over again.

I don’t grieve you every day anymore. But every October, there is a younger version of me standing somewhere in the past, still trying to understand why you had to go.

I have decided to become a rural superstition.

I cannot imagine spending my one precious life arguing with someone else’s poetry.

I have been accused of many things, but loving the moon too loudly is my favorite.

It’s not just the sun I am hiding from.

There are a thousand dead languages, and I would learn every one just to tell you I am yours.

Somewhere between a love letter and a death certificate, you will find me.

Some ghosts do not haunt houses. They haunt birthdays, old photographs, certain songs, and the month of October.

The trees have died and come back twenty times since you left. I wish people knew how to do that.

If the dead can hear us, they must be terribly jealous of how you say my name.

You called to scam me, but now we're discussing your childhood, your career choices, and why you're disappointing your mother. Neither of us is getting any money.

I need a nap, a haunted estate, and approximately zero additional human interactions.

Kiss me like you've been keeping a secret from the dead.