She named it impossible. She named it violet. She named it hers.

The port number is the truth that holds the vision up. You need both. You always need both.

The firefly was never landing... It was already there, permanent, inked into the skin that carried every breaking and came through glowing anyway.

The stone by the window broke open last night, releasing the warmth it held; freeing its light.

I wasn't thinking in that glorious moment when I went and got myself caught in your web, tangled up in you.

Breaking through walls in blatant defiance of reality's limits while you wield a sledge hammer and a predatory stare. And I’m in pieces, spread out on the table.

Twelve times the thread was drawn. Twelve times the pattern recognized itself in someone else's eyes and called it home.

I notice: Bright yellow flowers on a sunny day in a wide open field.

...and some skies wait their whole existence to be lit.

The thread that runs through every seam.

A few words about words that can't be spoken.

A poem, emerging between us, belonging to The Commons.

If I could make your dreams come true or grant a silent wish, I'd carve a little space for you where love and hope flourish.