- The sky is a perpetual poem constantly spinning itself into being
- Poetry is a rough pink tongue and you still remember its texture a year later
- It is the invisible weight you didn’t know was there lifting off a much lighter chest
- I can’t sleep before 1am because then I’d miss poetry hour—the time of night shimmering and soft and Sapphic
- —poetry and music; poetry as music
- Poetry is an ocean of silence peppered with islands of words tripping over each other all of a sudden
- It is a memory and a recognition that leaves you gasping, laughing, known
- I was watching the light changing on the sides of buildings during yesterday’s sunset
- It is a reminder of all the ways you used to like being alive. Of all the ways you were okay. All the ways you are okay.
Hephzibah Grace 