Write On

A sacred space for writers of all genres.
"I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center."
-Kurt Vonnegut

Bridge Noise

Middle of night, I wake,
not sure the time. Would
guess, weighty-eyed, before 3
from the sound of taxis honking 
impatiently; trucks exhausted,
dirt-huffing through the throat
of the Queensboro bridge, their heavy 
groans trek over, 
echo under 
Roosevelt trams.

When night-dazed,
I click through pictures
of you, old then new—
remember the tastes
of your skin.

That means it’s sometime 
before 9 where 
you are, just starting
morning as I try to sleep my way
to mine. Every time 
I check my time, habitually, 
I figure yours:
six hours ahead, wondering how much
you’re moving, if you’re six hours 
behind in your head 

Trucks ingest measured breath
fade away.

-Sarah Diedrick

Skinned Sheets

I measure time by how a chest swells
in sleep. Your breath constant, or rather,
stuttering: you lack breadth to shake
so you twitch and jerk in place, your inhales
a burden, rasping; exhales, a heavy
release. How warm and soft your skin
turns when your bones fill heavy with unshakable
dreams. 
Your body upheaves itself to hold mine— your inhales
loosen when you become a skin-sheath

-Sarah Diedrick

This was a time when one chord, one riff, could just bring tears to your eyes.  And not in an angsty teenage kind of way.  The kind that swells your chest to a balloon, seems to push your ribs out to the sides to make way for all the space it will need.  It’s the music that you and him listened to together when you first met.  The music you listened to when you placed the computer between your Indian style seats, letting silence supplement a melody that was so quiet you could hear when each other’s breaths stuttered.  The kind of music that one of you knew at first, so well, that you cued the other person to the part they should listen to closely.  Wait, here it is, listen.  You didn’t know then why that certain part made the other person feel the way they did.  No special lyrics or notes that you knew of yet.  Then suddenly one day, years later, that part of the song plays when you’re alone in your apartment and your love is away.  And before that memory even registers, your heart swells to the same full balloon— swells so much that even your tears can’t fit so they leak from your eyes, clinging to skin.  After the verse ends, it’s only then that you realize that part was the part your love played for you—made you pay attention to—before your love had even unfolded.  You realize the reversal.  One day you question the music when you can’t question love.  Another day, you question neither because that puffed feeling in your chest is enough to answer any question.

So true.  To add to that, coffee + New York Times in the morning before work = a happy girl 

So true.  To add to that, coffee + New York Times in the morning before work = a happy girl 

Ciao bella

Okay, so I love my internship— just wanted to put that out there.  I had to call a restaurant in Milan to inquire about a recipe.  I was just calling to ask for the name but he started talking about what was in the dish, the different ways it can be prepared, and he kept calling me “ma’am” in his wonderful Italian accent.

Oh, Italy, how I miss you and all your beautiful people.  And your beautiful language.  And just the way your people live in general.  I really want to start studying Italian again! I was at a point where I could have a conversation in Italian but I lost most of it :( 

Put on Christmas list: Rosetta Stone

If you are planning to take the GRE’s (which I am in November to apply for graduate school for Creative Writing!!!) you should get this book.  It’s a great resource to prepare.

If you are planning to take the GRE’s (which I am in November to apply for graduate school for Creative Writing!!!) you should get this book.  It’s a great resource to prepare.

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