Most of my nights are spent on my couch, drinking a beer or two and devouring poetry books whole. I linger over the same lines, trying to burn them into me. I circle and star and underline. I contemplate tattooing the words into my skin and then worry that I do not have skin enough for all the words I long to contain.
I drink in every passage about longing, absence, solitude, and loneliness. Every broken-hearted misery is a reminder, a kinship.
I spend my nights with Nick Flynn, Sylvia Path, Rumi, and Gibran. I listen to Patricia Smith slam down hard poetry on my tiny phone, rattling all of me. Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti consume me like a wildfire.
I listen and listen, alive and wild. They say to be a good writer it is necessary to be a good reader. While that is likely true, I am not sure how one functions without these necessary words.
After days of havoc, this is my shelter.