The Work / Poetry
The words that kept me here.
Eleven published collections and an archive built across years of memory, survival, longing, identity, and the moments that became easier to understand only after they were written.
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Published Collections
Eleven books documenting the evolution of the work, the voice behind it, and the life that shaped both.
Eleven Published Books
An emotional record, preserved in print.
The collections began as a private archive. Over time, they became a public record of memory, grief, connection, survival, and the distance between the life being lived and the life being imagined.
Scroll or swipe to explore the collections.
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From the Archives
I never began writing poetry to publish it. I wrote to remember, to survive, and to understand moments I did not yet have language for. Over the years, those moments became thousands of fragments scattered across notebooks, phones, waiting rooms, and sleepless nights. Most will never be seen. These are three that stayed.
there are ghosts
there are ghosts
that never haunt us…
they simply leave…
taking with them
the version of the world
that knew our name…
i have buried
entire futures
without ever touching
a shovel…
i have watched
hope evaporate
so slowly…
it looked
like patience…
and when the horizon
finally turns itself
into darkness…
don’t call it
an ending…
call it
the moment
the universe
stopped asking me
to become
someone
i was never meant
to survive as…
nothing happened.
nothing happened.
that is what made it sacred.
no confession.
no kiss.
no revelation large enough
to change our lives.
only two people
refusing to turn the key.
years later
i remember almost nothing
we said.
only that neither of us
wanted to be the first
to become a memory.
i’ve always believed…
I’ve always believed…
that people don’t really die all at once.
I think we disappear in pieces.
A laugh that nobody hears again.
A phone number that stops being dialed.
A chair that stays empty long enough
to become furniture instead of a memory.
A favorite song that suddenly hurts.
Then one day…
someone says a name for the last time.
And the universe quietly folds another page.
sometimes miracles don’t arrive like lightning.
sometimes…
they arrive as ordinary Tuesdays
you almost forget to be grateful for.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always paid
so much attention to little things.
The way afternoon light slips through a window.
The silence after someone says, “I’m here.”
The way rain makes a city look like it’s remembering itself.
The way grief and gratitude somehow learn
to breathe through the same lungs.
We spend our lives collecting sunsets that can’t be kept…
Conversations that become echoes…
Hands we’ll eventually have to let go of…
And somehow…
we call that living.
I think that’s beautiful.
I think that’s tragic.
I think they’re the same thing.
Don’t build a cathedral out of absence.
Don’t spend years tending a garden
where someone used to stand.
There are still flowers blooming where your feet are.
Go there.
Sit in parking lots for hours
because nobody wants the moment to end.
Watch one more sunset.
Take one more picture.
Write the text message.
Say “I love you” before pride edits the sentence.
Because…
Life doesn’t leave all at once.
It evaporates.
A conversation postponed.
A trip delayed.
A dream filed under “someday.”
One morning you wake up…
and someday has quietly become never.
Don’t make a religion out of later.
It worships at empty altars.
The archives remain open.
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Published Elsewhere
Selected poetry and short fiction published beyond the books. These links open the original publications in a new tab.
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Yellow Daisy
The poetic foundation of a story world that eventually expanded into novels, screenplays, episodic work, and more.
Poetry · Fiction · Screen
The idea that refused to disappear.
Yellow Daisy began in poetry and remained there for years before the larger story was ready to reveal itself. The poems are not separate from the project. They are part of its origin.
Project page coming soon05
Developing Work
New collections, recovered pieces, and work that has not yet found its final form.
Unpublished and Evolving
Some poems are still becoming themselves.
Additional work remains unpublished or is currently being shaped into future collections. Selected pieces may appear through the journal as the archive continues to be revisited.
Poetry did not begin as something meant to be shared. It began as a way to remain.
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