The Box of Chocolates
I am in Paris and You Are Moving to California

Summer beer tastes like water

and I forget to drink water

and forget I am in France.

I wrote melancholy post cards about the weather

while I was realizing alone.

My two feet stepped on as many cobble stones

as us two who are not to

gether anymore.


I think that when I was 3 I cut my knee on a loose brick playing tag.

Last week I fell on the pavement at night in Barcelona

and I miss people who never existed and am afraid for things that haven’t happened yet.

I hope I learned something about the weather and running on pavement.


I am lost in Paris

I am lost in Paris and in people.

I love the metro like numbers the same everywhere

well not in Rome

but actually the metro stops at Rome before the place where I stay Courcelle, so even Rome.

And the German could read the Roman numerals on the statue of Ramon from 1130.

I smile a lot because it makes me small

and is also like the metro

the same.

Je ne parle pas le francais

que c’est genant!

Mais je peux metro

so I also have a little liberte

smiling, that’s fraternite

and to smile on the metro is egalite.

I’m in love with homesick crowds and dizzying quiet.


It was raining when I got to Paris

I lost so much along the way


cell phone service,

my favorite sweatshirt,

my way.

It was raining looking for a boulangerie I never found

and I quickly bought 

two ice creams when the rain cleared.

I evaporated slowly along the Seine

and I put out my socks to dry

and my feet to unprune.

When I bought beer for Nicolas

to walk home along the pont,

the clouds evaporated and I

fell in love with the view.


I fell in love like ok paella between not sleeping and sunrise in the sea.

Quiet language for days that felt like weeks because we started drinking beer at 10am.

He said “please?” when my English was too quiet,

I wondered if I could give him

and the city

more than English definitions and

a kiss on the cheek at Plaça Catalunya.

I gave him

football player

a red sox pencil as a token of my home.

He thanked me as if I had given him myself

as the sun turned the rocks under the Mediterranean waves pale pink

and I whispered that I couldn’t swim and he held my fear gently.

The bark of palm trees burns even faster

from their glow our eyes shared

a flicker of surprise-

In the Mediterranean sea?

On an abandoned roof terrace?

With the sunrise, palm trees, and always fountains?

Not us, I would never love you at home

but you were a perfect week

and when I got to Paris it was raining.


Hello all,

I’ve been traveling the world for the past several weeks and to follow will be a series of poems I wrote while abroad and photos I took to accompany them. I’m eager to trade stories, so please message if you’re curious!

I hate Vanessa’s texts and hair

in my mouth on you guys’ couch

that is mine, all

though I

haven’t slept with you

or your


so I make tomato cages all day in

the four walled garden, hiding

from my roommate’s roommate,

where I ate jam on a hot dog bun and felt

spongy guilt

but we have two kinds of jam I

am trying to save from her

and hot dog buns, his, I

shouldn’t be eating.

I eat loneliness,

shut up, I hate

a lot but mostly

your girlfriend and my roommate’s roommate

and trucks at 2am

and me, I’m

spending money on my

making wrong, my

no good deed, my

we played bullshit on your patio last night

ability to lie.

I hated a 7 year old’s direction like I hate Vanessa-

what were my school years for?

I bear my belly.

I cry.

Once you get this you have to say 5 nice things about yourself publicly and then send this to 10 of your favorite followers. Thinking good thoughts about yourself is hard but it will make you feel better so give it a go, for the sake of spreading positivity! ∘˚˳° ⊂(´・◡・⊂ )

Bridget sent this to me awhile ago, but I’ve been not writing lately so… Anyway I took this as a prompt…

I ask questions about how hurricanes are the same as butterfly wings in my life and what red pens actually say.

I am not afraid of biking to unknown addresses late at night.

I have a knack for putting my love in boxes to mail to my mom and my sister and roommate and childhood friend.

Untangling what is my happy is like learning languages or doing a handstand.

Like the above, “I need” grew into fierceness that quietly goes into battle.

The tent of my bed at twenty-something

on an Ikea day of the week that I can’t remember

I ask what my thighs would look like in a smaller model.

I’ve postered the walls and canopied the bed as if I’ll stay here,

I’m always the lonely one I remember at dinner and over cheese,

whenever I say “best friend,”

I keep nothing’s company,

I disappear to make room

for nothing.

I eat bags of carrots, fill the recycling bin with diet coke cans, run out of coffee,

I buy light beer, or think about it with disgust.

How can I make more room?

I pause to count my crunches,

I readjust my anxiety in the shower and my waistband in my chair.

Some nights I celebrate and others I think of “death” without thinking.

Without anyone to write to, I court emptiness in my poems.

Love is for people who need

like my best friends who need

everything but me.

I’m not like that, I don’t cry

If it was dark, the seeing was more candle-

I would use ‘transient,’ but my roommate would say that I’m an SAT word.

Being happy is like white paint on my hand

Facebook messages


I’m so scared! I hate Google!

I hate therapy! I hate email!

Candle is like carrying fragiley a full glass

Sunshine is like


new sheets and painting.

I’m waiting for my eyes

to adjust to the light.