[this has been redacted for possible publication. I will repost if it doesn't get into the college lit mag.]

if you could look into
the silence between
your words and mine
what would you see--
a widening distance
between your heart
and mine

it is those strange feelings
you know--
the ones we have no words for.

the way your stomach drops
all the way to your toes
at your lovers smile--
the feeling of looking at all
the stars when your breath
catches behind your heart.

I promise I'll be posting some writing soon, but in the meantime, I wanted to share with you guys some links and whatnot. You've helped me a lot on my writing journey, which has subsequently led to this:

This June, I'm releasing my first-ever EP with five songs. I'm really, really excited to have the opportunity to do this! A few of you have heard my music before, so I thought I'd throw this your way just in case you're interested. Please, don't feel obligated to like/share/buy anything.

(...does this count as a solicitation???)

My oboe playing is not where I would like it to be. I am struggling to write a melody I like. After two months of the same stuff, my aural skills are barely improved. My reed making skills are naught to speak of. I am reminded of times I could have done more, or could have done better. I wonder if anything I do will have lasting impact, or if anything sets me apart from everyone else I see that plays so well or writes so beautifully.

the notion of falling
tumbling over and
giving myself up
entirely to this
newness and letting go
of the fear that nips
at the back of my heels
finally settling into
allowing myself the
luxury of risk by
opening up like
a budding leaf
to the possibility
of you

this paper house we've built
is sinking. sodden by the rain
of that last goodbye--
and i don't think there is
much worth saving.

lets buy a boat and set it
in this pooling mass of mis-
placed hopes and threads
of dreams and see if it can
float till the tears recede

this peace filled morning
with sleepy sun-streaming-
through-windows and setting
on the dog curled at the foot
of the bed while hot water
clouds the air with peppermint
steam and the memory of that
last dance

with you

To love a writer is to listen,
Sitting in the dark,
Driving home on a Friday night,
As her voice, small, fills your ears,
Fear trembling in the words she shares,
Afraid the piece of heart written on this sleeve,
of paper,
Will be misconstrued having left her lips,
Unable to take back with aching fingertips.
To love a writer is to listen,
With the intention of loving every word,
Appreciating the strength as she bares her soul to you,
Her muse.

I shuffled through the snow and ice back to my apartment that night. I had to stop putting my foot in my mouth while talking with Emily. But how?
And what are my motives? Emily? Myself? Clara?
I stopped with my hand on the door to my building. Or should it be for God above any of us?
My mind spun as I tramped up the stairs. There was God in this picture again. It was becoming apparent to me that I was going to have to make a decision about Him sooner or later; He kept showing up in everything, making even more of a mess.

Green feather lost
green feather found.
For once is lost
and lost is found,
and once abiding all around.
Together we share
a love so ground,
that all that once was,
is all that is now.