Thank you Universe

I have love

Love that is promised like the moon rising every night but each time a little different

I have hope

My whole life has been beautiful and even when it wasn’t I managed to be beautiful

I have health

My body works tirelessly to make sure I can dream all my dreams and write all my poems.

I have myself and the way I nourish every part of my being will be my greatest accomplishment.


A writer

Writers are just a collection of other writers

They are the product of inspiration

The proof that art transcends into each human

One by one

We are stories and poems that have lived before.


My mother tells me exactly how this day went 19 years ago

How the sun set and the moon rose

How the plane endured the winds anger

She describes the brightness of my orange jacket

She tells me of the tears that landed on my four year-old head

She tells me of the anxiety and fear that her and my father began to birth that day

She tells me that there was no return to their old life

She says despite everything we were crossing oceans and borders together and that’s all that’s ever mattered.

-The day we came to America

Conversations in my head


I tell him I’m used to the silence

The silence is what becomes of me after I’ve exhausted

all of my dignity

I tell him at one point I thought I prayed for you

I tell him at one point I did pray for you

I tell him about the day I began waking up feeling at peace

It was like the night sky was gently placing me in the new day

I tell him about the night I wrote falling in love for the second time feels like catching the sunset but this time actually timing it right

I tell him about the dreams I had

How my dreams would bring him in when I couldn’t see him

I tell him about all the poems that were still waiting for him

I tell him I wish you could stay

I tell him if the rain and sunlight have made an agreement on when they will be why couldn’t we?

Instead I tell him take care.

There’s the past and the present

I told myself you will learn

That my past told stories

It was Just the source of my beginning

I told myself you will never accept love that isn’t complete

But somehow I found myself once again unable to leave a place I knew so well

The walls were freshly painted but it was still the same walls

The furniture smelled different but looked the same

the ground was still uneven and balance was impossible

He was still him

The past sometimes likes to find itself in the present.