Some words arrive quietly. Others refuse to.
I’ve always had a fascinating relationship with words. I collect them, turn them over, sit with them, carry them with me and occasionally make them carry things they probably weren’t designed to hold.
Poetry, for me, has never been about having all the answers. It’s about noticing. The glance that lasts a second too long. The ache that has no sensible name. The ridiculousness of being human. The things we say, the things we don’t, and everything that lives somewhere between the two.
This is where I put some of it down. The rest tends to follow me home.
