All Things Are From Ourselves

No one is beta by choice
Some are alpha by chance;

All we need sometimes
Is someone to save us
From the world and
From ourselves:

All things are from ourselves.

When I Write

I write when I’m on the train
When Albert Hammond sings and
When glimpses of you appear
In the ghosts of the shadows of others

Just for a moment be close to you
Pretend that I’m still holding you

And perhaps someday
When we’re done chasing our fantasies

Maybe love will bring you back to me.

Making Tiles With Scrambled Eggs

the night after our first fight you ran
away. from me and from your abandoned necklace
i saw our love fade away into the break of day,
mirroring the shattered fragments of my

life (and heart) as i knew it. you’re no good. for me.
is all that is left of our love – an echo. or maybe

not so much an echo: at least an echo is a reciprocation;
my calls for your love bears no return.