There’s a guy who sells Baklava on the corner. It smells great.

you scrawl notes in the margins of my favorite book. i repeat words like admirable & superlative to pass the time.

there are 1000 butterfly wings framed along the hall.

we dream ourselves alone & in love with worldly monsters so we toss dimes into the ocean & will each wish to come true.

in atlanta, you’ve got a grown up job & everyone is so proud. coffee & good friends & cold breezes & fine art make it all worth while.

you wonder how to comfort someone when their best friend dies. you never find the answer. you order pizza instead.

there are burn marks on the skeleton of pavement outside your apartment. it smells like dust & teethmarks.

neither of us are rich enough to eat baklava every day but Instagram is full of pictures of the things we’ve done together.

i still pray before i fall asleep at night. i hope Jesus doesn’t read this blog.


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