this is where those quaking moments, shattered,

knees on the wet grass, mud under the fingernails,

the gasping and the pleading,

finally make sense.

where the heart storms, secrets are burned,

and, despite despair, the possibility of it not having to be so damned hard becomes obvious.

this is now.

ghosts at the back door,

candles lit,

and white.

this is edge, maturity, and nothing.

this is movement, joy, and writhing.

this is where the foundation meets the sky.

where the work meets the dream.

and where the love meets everything.

photos: the lovely korakia pensione in palm springs. so perfectly my style that it hurt.