You Create, We Nurture


Tinge of blood

You give me a rose: Not red but a yellow one. You give a morning Not shinning bright but can be cloudy. You give a dream Not misleading but can be of missing. You can give me a bud: No…

I write

I don’t always write about her, but when I do— half of me wishes she’s reading. The other half hopes she doesn’t know I scratch words into notebook margins and spill coffee on poems that were written on nights when…