All I can offer are my words, Crude and rudimentary as they are.
At your feet I place my book, I give to you the white behind the black, that which no one pays attention to dark matter, the rest between breaths, gyp in the rose bouquet silence between the snare beat
Taking aside his poetry he wondered if it would be good enough to make the lobster tap dance on the kitchen floor … this one was not for the pot but on a leash of the black man befriended for life, hand in pincer the two went well together
across the road a troupe of teenagers sang a clip from the musical “Oliver” then ran back home full of joy recounting their late-night exploits
she laid it all out, her phone off no distractions - fully present time to feel this
she chose coffee with a soul who understands the agony of coexisting with a mind splintered; the pain of living on, seven days after dying by her own hand; the nauseating guilt of her audacity to figure it all out, one day too late; the torment of...