boys, byu, each life that touches ours

Apologies to the boys I have dated

for the brief references to you on this blog.


Even more apologies for the lengthy references to you (not by name, of course) in my term paper.

(insert kissy-face emoji here)

boys, byu

sandwiches. in the sunshine. on an october day that feels like may.

boy. 6’4″. kind. brilliant.

he’s a psych major but says all he’s passionate about right now–of his seven courses–is yoga.  how psychology relates to yoga.  how physics relates to yoga.  how english relates to yoga.

you take a bite.

you completely discounted him six weeks ago, but now you wish this lunch would last longer.

because maybe he could care about you, like he cares about yoga.


I just think it was that moment, you know,

when you threw your head back in laughter, there in the fluorescent lighting of the taco place?  The way the humidity had given your face a little bit of sheen, the way your beard was growing back? You looked like you worked hard, and I think you had — being with someone you’re starting to love sure can be exhausting. All those butterflies and stomach leaps and “you’re sure you’re not too busy?”‘s.

(I was never too busy for you.)

(Marry me in three years, won’t you?)

boys, literature i love

Why I looked away

The weasel was stunned into stillness as he was emerging from beneath an enormous shaggy wild rose bush four feet away. I was stunned into stillness twisted backward on the tree trunk. Our eyes locked, and someone threw away the key.

Our look was as if two lovers, or deadly enemies, met unexpectedly on an overgrown path when each had been thinking of something else: a clearing blow to the gut. It was also a bright blow to the brain, or a sudden beating of brains, with all the charge and intimate grate of rubbed balloons. It emptied our lungs. It felled the forest, moved the fields, and drained the pond; the world dismantled and tumbled into that black hole of eyes. If you and I looked at each other that way, our skulls would split and drop to our shoulders. But we don’t. We keep our skulls.

Annie Dillard, Living Like Weasels

You’ve been looked at like that,

And you’ve looked at like that.

Across a crowded chapel, a beckoned finger

Yes, yes, I mean you.

Through a glass door as you turned around,

a happenstance glance while you waited for something else to start.

He looked so very good, so very well.


A year later it wasn’t the glance that split your skull:

It was the lack of looking that told you everything.

So without contact but with brutal force your heart is split and so is his, ever so neatly,

There between the pews.

No messy guts.

Just truth, clear and steady as a pulse.