a mouthful of everything i couldn’t leave untasted: the fruit i ate knowing it would bruise, the gardens i planted in people who were only passing through, all the beautiful things whose roots fed on what i spent years trying to bury, all the times i burned the map because something blooming beyond the road smelled better than knowing where the fuck i was going. written in thorns and nectar and ash and knees dirty from getting close enough to the god who keeps making temporary things because permanence would give us permission to stop paying attention.

 

some of these poems have been carried around the world by thousands of people through tattoos, wedding vows, ceremonies, paintings, aa meetings, and all the places we borrow language when love becomes too large for our own vocabulary. others have been waiting naked in my notebooks for their first pair of eyes. none of them have titles because i wanted them to meet you without telling you what they are, like someone slipping a seed beneath your tongue and kissing you before explaining what it grows into, leaving you to wonder which part of you will crack open first.

 

the book finally drops from the branch on november 24.

 

pre-order below and i’ll send you the complete audio version, read by me, for free… so you can taste the poems twice: once as the stain left behind on paper, once as whatever is still dripping from my voice when i pull them from the vine.