Hey Galaxy CD + Shirt. digital; music; poems; pre-order; Hey Galaxy Vinyl + Shirt. Your pronouns haven’t even been invented yet. “Birthday, for Jenn” I suppose I love this life. I think my tongue had . Recently, when I wasn’t believing it, I said to somebody wise, “I deserve love”, and she said “deserve” is not the right word to use, she said love isn’t ever a thing anyone should have to earn, “and I mean anyone” she said, and I started to explain why I disagreed, but my explanation was a windowless room with a locked door, and I always, for as long as I can remember, have felt so much better outside. Almost as much as I love how you hate that I call breasts boob.And say you’re tired of dating a twelve-year-old boy but God your boobs bring me joy,Though I could live forever between the lines of your teeth and eat nothing but memory and purge myself clean.You are a dream.We are a nightmare sometimes,but if you wake up crying I’ll be there to hold youfold you in the pockets of my faith and say “we’ll be okay…”, A letter to my dog, exploring the human condition, I Sing The Body Electric; Especially When My Power Is Out.

My poems would be billboards. Your name is not a song you will sing under your breath.

— Andrea Gibson, Staircase (via weight-of-her)

You are the music of two grasshoppers making love on a rosebush outside my schoolyard,where four-year-olds ask me, “Andrea,what are the grasshoppers doing?” and I tell them they’re dancing to the musicof you are the gaps in my ribcage where the sunrise shines through to my heart and you are the part of the sunset that is so pink the grasshoppers think ‘maybe we should just stop and watch’You are the moon when it blooms for the very first timeand the child, inspired, unwound the little jar that set 10,000 grasshoppers free. For Eli 2. Cheers! My mind would not have to move this fast just to rest. And you drive me fucking crazy.I mean insanely. HOME BOOKS POEMS CLOTHING ACCESSORIES. I always hated the smell of shampoo. When I come home, to sit still, to chop carrots, to call my mother while I make soup, to sweep the porch, to walk barefoot through the creek, to fall asleep in my own bed while the city is still awake, to lower my voice, all the way back to the earth, to remember a story I don’t want to forget, the couple who flew from Croatia to put a thimble in my hand, with my grandmother watching, I rest it beside the others, on the windowsill, beside the bookcase, full of books my friends have written, I have a bookcase full of books my friends have written, that is so much, that is so much.

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