If there is any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone, sharing something. Desire makes everything blossom—lush, heavy, fragrant, and wet. The pleasure of being nothing but entirely animal. It can be so freeing. So what are we waiting for? I’m a purveyor of such pleasures, after all.

We stare at a fire because it flickers, because it glows. The light is what catches our eyes, but what makes a person lean close to a fire has nothing to do with its bright shape. What draws you to a fire is the warmth you feel when you come near.
‍
Let me tell you something, this life I lead is the life I’ve always dreamed of: to practice in The Art of Love. Exchanging love letters from the corners of our eyes across a crooked bar table; tracing flirtations along our cocktail glasses, wondering what’s to come. The electric and hypnotic quality when two strangers become something deeper, like when leaves take on the first shimmer of color in Fall.
‍
Sweetest are my intimate impulses. What I veil with my language, my body utters. And never will you forget the shape of it and the way I move, rolling on the balls of my feet all swing and curve like a jaguar in her natural habitat. Thrilled mischief ever-present in my eyes.  The red, ripe plum of my mouth.
‍
A charismatic poetess with a resonant laugh, I come from a world where excitement isn’t taken to be a reverse indicator of intelligence. Where it’s normal to mention Cocteau and belted kingfishers in the same sentence, crave a Chicago dog after a visit to Alinea. Though hardly pretentious, I carry within me an orchard of experience, ripe with opportunity. I’m known to look for the chance to join the lines of a poem to a conversation seamlessly, which is a very fancy way to say I’m well-read. And isn’t every poem for someone? Why not you?