violet tinted midnight settles along the shingles

the quiet embracing the souls nestled in warm sheets

duvets radiating light from sweet dreams past

of life

and jungles

tangled with branches and thick with the entrancing call of the unknown

of love

and the gentle touch of lips to his cheek

of the muffled patter of rain

the calm in her bones before the storm brews

of coffee and snowflakes pouring into your lungs

along the fog stalked streets of London

of flowers spread across the worn floor

beauty anew

sleep finally

until dawn kisses your eyelids awake

to greet a world of chances and the drifting smell of waffles


If I inked the things I lacked into my skin would I be complete?

their chemical names whispered into the chasms left by their absence

echoes swirling into a fog


intertwined with my being

are these hollow echoes all I can claim?

the misty curvature of their letters slip through my fingers before I can clench them

serotonin pounded into my pearly soft skin

will this fix me?

do I need fixing?

Little Nest

When I have a house, I’d like a little kitchen with a sunny window perched just so behind indigo drapes.
I’d like to have a little french press and a pantry filled with ingredients for my own little coffee house
from my counter.
And an ever-so-slightly dented kettle to hold firm in my mind the idea that even with some dents, we can
all boil and whistle when we need to.
I’ll fill my closets with thrift store clothes and worn jeans that fit me just right even though they’ve clung
to the curves and arches of another body.
There’ll be mismatched pillowcases and crumpled, but straightened duvets. Comfort in the mess, I’ll
remind myself.
It’ll be light and infectiously airy, but with just the right amount of color so when the bad feelings come
we can turn their moods around with the funny floral wallpaper.
On the walls I’ll hang pictures that I’ve drawn and photos that I’ve taken in my travels. Snapshots of my
life strung about before us- the good bits. Afterall no one wants to be reminded of that first day after the
heartbreak when you had 3 pints of ice cream in your freezer, yet you couldn’t be bothered to get out of
I’ll have a shelf for poetry books that will never get dusty because I won’t be able to go a day or two
without allowing my fingers to graze their spines.
I’ll cook.
I’ll fill my little nest with the soft smell of home-brewed espresso and cinnamon rolls, scones, and pot
pies made from scratch.
My kids will have favorite treats that only their mother can make them.
I’ll brew tea in a magical way that tastes like home and feels like love as the hot liquid slides into their
Every so often I’ll burn incense to make the house smell warm and lovely.
We’ll draw the curtains open to let the light wander through or just sit and watch the dark clouds roll in as
we wait for rain.
We will be library people, but that doesn’t mean we won’t have shelves of our favorite books in the house
at all times.
I’ll plant an herb garden and flowers.
The outside of the house will look welcoming. It’ll be a safe haven.
I’ll string fairy lights to keep the bad feelings away. Their soft, warm glows make even the darkest days a
bit less gruesome.
And we will always have surplus of blankets and oversized sweaters in the house so comfort (in some
form) is never out of reach.
I’ll paint stars and galaxies on the ceilings of the rooms. Who says our walls have to confine us?
The fireplace will be filled with candles and I’ll have a space to take some quiet time. To think. To
contemplate a life with more walks in the countryside, more feminist squabbles, more sleepy Sunday
mornings in baggy pajamas and stained coffee pots.
I’ll make ivy and little violets grow inside the house. Lovely faces and longing leaves to watch us as we
begin and end our days. Sleepy petals to greet us at the door after long days of school or work.
In the winter the floor boards will shudder with the cold and we shall braid scarves around our necks,
arms, shoulders, and anything else we can manage.
Bleary-eyed early morning risers will effortless drift into the kitchen to the wafting smell of my
strawberry waffles.
Fuzzy socks will scuff along the tiles to the luminescent bathroom light at 3 am to wash a puffy face, I
will be waiting with tea and a spoon dripping with a drabble of honey to help the intrusive thoughts find
their way to the door.
Mousy hair and chipped nail polish afternoons where we will bundle up on the couch watching only the
guiltiest of pleasurable tv shows. Perhaps a bigfoot documentary.
The walls of the house will soothe us as they speak with purpose, their inflection unmissable.
Our little leaking thatched-roofed catastrophe cares.
We will love it and it will love us.
It is beautiful
and lovely
and effortless
It is tornadic in its love, but in only the best of ways.
Stop by when you get a chance.


I stumble upon caverns of myself

I didn’t know existed

lightly dusted in curiosity and ashes

from passions burned out long ago

With a pounding of rain against my face

a tangling of echoes weaves itself into my hair.

My fingers trace the smattering of freckles

branded into my skin.

Thoughts flicker past.

My ribs flutter beneath my skin as if to cry

out for something beyond for

the thrill of excavations of past versions of myself.

A tempest is brewing.

I shall stay and mark the raindrops

as they trace their paths along the glass panes.

Across the misty way I watch

safe inside

warmth laced along the curvature of sweaters.

I stay for comfort for

peace in the storm for

myself and the sanctity of the weather.


Happiness is a chunky yellow knit jumper

you never want to take off

it’s listening to early-morning birds

chirp and sing and shout at one another

from the cottage window

it’s balancing hot tea in piggy mugs

up caddywhompus stairs back up

to the cozy duvet calling your name

it’s climbing out onto the roof to capture the dusk

that swaddles all the chimneys in her indigo lullabies

it’s realizing you feel happy again.


Taylor Ogle