to your unlikely
silences, your unavowed
explosions of joy
I listen. I am
a boundless receptacle
for your corrosive
past, your buried pain,
your ecstasies; my future
secretive, unknown.
Writer Between Worlds
Soulful writing about humans and places
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My inner mystic is plagued by insomnia and runs entirely on divine grace. The outer shell, however, does occasionally need: jasmine tea, ice cream (preferably salted caramel), good books, music, and new horizons. If you’d like to help keep this blog alive, please choose an amount:
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Writer Between Worlds 