Writing

You,

my mirror,

my other half,

my dark side.

We look the same.

But in no way are we alike.

We're like two halves, 

of the same coin.

But you-

are my worst regret.

Watching 

the flat white clouds 

melt onto the field. The  

subdued earth suffocates—my breath

quickens. 

Peace can only be achieved if the power of love overrules the love of power.

How do I know that this will ever be enough? I can’t picture myself settling.

Is it okay that I wish for my grandmother to die? 

The month

(ish) 

of time between Thanksgiving

and December 25th

is 

undeniably

the best season.

Everyone is joyous

despite their

close-to-frostbitten noses

here in Vermont.