1. Sweet Nothings

    Writers enjoy capturing readers with literate and studied depictions of love; they labor over poetry and philosophy, classic novels and films, all in an attempt to paint the perfect picture of the perfect love — of how it becomes and how it is. All they ever draw are eager eyes of expectation seeking to make something from the reflections of a curator’s piecemeal ideal. It may be pretty, but it isn’t real.

    Those shining moments may happen, but love endures long after those moments become dusty photographs in a forgotten shoebox in the back of a closet. Those moments make stories happen, but they don’t make love happen. Love isn’t made of grand gestures; it’s made of quiet support that no one else would notice. Nor is love made of desperate longing; it doesn’t push or shove to jump ahead of the queue.


    Love waits patiently, knowing its time will come. Love isn’t some dramatic movement meant to demonstrate what it would do. Love simply does, without expectation. Love knows that any sentence that begins with the word if is telling, not showing, and ain’t nobody got time for that.

    Love doesn’t tell you what would happen if it existed, it simply exists. It’s present in a smile and a shoulder squeeze when you’re frustrated and under deadline, a warm towel and a cold beer as you’re emerging from a shower, a stupid joke whispered in your ear that makes you laugh when you were about to cry. Love is there when nothing else is, and love is always on your side — even when you fuck shit up — and love won’t even ask for anything in return, because love knows it is its own reward. There’s no quid pro quo with love; it just wants you to succeed and to be happy.

    I want that too.

    © 2014 by Jennifer R.R. Mueller

  2. My Gift

    Why we ponder words
    no longer fit for expression when
    a rushed exhale broken
    between tangled tongues
    would do …

    what thoughts tickle membranes
    otherwise occupied
    with intimacies of survival
    like breathing.

    Your strength succumbs
    to shining and gravity
    overcomes and we, we fall
    without remorse
    or recompense. No need when
    slow beyond the tipping point
    we splurge, my ever-onward
    crashing into your reaching-forward
    and we

    transcend. Stillness surely
    forgives the moon
    her trespass. No vision
    plumbs my consciousness
    without your imprimatur. She knows
    how we’ve never been together
    like she knows
    how we’ve never been apart.

    Every day you tell me
    I’m beautiful, every day
    you tell me you love me, so tell me
    how you think
    you don’t deserve verses
    in your name?

    © 2014 by Jennifer R.R. Mueller

  3. Hi, could you please do all the things for me? There’s a small furry creature sleeping in my lap.

    Hi, could you please do all the things for me? There’s a small furry creature sleeping in my lap.

  4. Lothario Danced

    And so we sat:
    echoes of the last hurrah,
    a freeze-frame adventure captured
    and preserved, a stop
    gap for memory’s crease
    in undulating terror
    of that oft-spoke refrain that time,
    it is. Time heals all wounds.

    But how much healing
    does dying accomplish? We sat:
    remaining in, stead
    fast reminders that life goes on,
    even if you choose to stay.

    Resistance, perhaps, the stronger
    part of seldom
    where we sat: waiting
    for the storm to pass. Refusal
    rattled ragged whispers like
    dying prayers from heaving chests,
    but all you heard
    was laughter, and so

    we sat. I hear it still.
    Ever trembling
    in the pushing through.
    These times the rain
    is too heavy, the thunder
    too loud, the air
    too thick for metaphor.

    © 2014 by Jennifer R.R. Mueller

  5. You’re a fool if you think he only writes to you.

    Jayarrarr (via hotpervymess)

    Holey Cheese. Jayarrarr is wise. And apparently, there are many jerky men on Tumblr!

    (via hotpervymess)

    Haha — I just want to state for the record that I don’t entirely remember saying this, but okay. It definitely sounds like something I would say. Seeing it on my dash again, was kinda shocked by the notes and, to be honest, not sure how I feel about that. Kinda sad that there are this many people who identify with it, maybe.

    (via hotpervymess)

  6. Petition for More Days in the Month of April

    This month has been, and will continue to be, incredibly stressful for me. Part of this is due to circumstances beyond my control, but yet another part is due to my difficulty inability to say no, especially when people are offering to pay me to do something.

    The result? I find myself looking forward to what will quite possibly be the busiest and most stressful few weeks of my life up to this point (if you exclude the bar exam and all law school exams, because why would you include those anyway?).

    By the end of this month, I’ll have been in a wedding, and been there however I can for my sister and the rest of the family as my 7-month-old niece has heart surgery (scheduled in two days). Those are the things I have no control over.

    But then, while those things are going on, I’ll also have: written 28,000 total words for one gig; written 18,000-20,000 for another; edited, fact-checked, and evaluated some 800-1,000 articles for yet another project; and edited two manuscripts.

    Oh, and let’s not forget the various things I do that doesn’t actually make me any money, things like posting here on Tumblr. Those things will likely diminish in frequency and scope — unless more days are added to the month of April.

    Hence the petition. Now if only I could figure out to whom it should be addressed and delivered ….

  7. Siren on Shore Leave


    In the time you were away, I drew
    arrows like breath to lungs, 17 strokes
    ran rivers through sordid caesurae,
    and I was not alone.

    Never said I needed you — I
    thought you knew. Crossed lines
    tend to fray each other, even
    in the pulling towards.

    Like tip-of-the-tongue words, frustration
    snarled and fanged. Feral
    complacency of happenstance
    distorted fate, but I drew daring
    like tongue to lips — 32 scars
    forging fresh
    shortcuts through fault lines —
    and we were not apart.

    How waves of kisses licking erode
    staid shores, you knew. I loved you less
    for what we were than
    for what we could become; where
    calm pressed patience
    in the spaces between forage
    and found.

    Strength rests not in remembrance,
    in refrains unburdened of meaning
    through force of repetition. Why
    look back on yesterdays static
    and finite, with uncountable tomorrows
    glistening yet to be?

    You spoke in tongues
    of regeneration; your light pointed
    straight to places promising
    more profound pulses. We transcend,
    I reckon. In the time you were a
    way, I realized — we have
    all the time in the world.

    Your guide lamps
    through distortion; a beacon breathing
    hope, regret expelled. Here
    footways on pathfalls; somewhere —

    by Jennifer R.R. Mueller

  8. Revolution

    We molded resistance
    into mutual fortifications, where
    among bed sheets twisted
    through fevered fornication we
    became the rug-burned ends
    of tension’s last resolve.

    Our tongues lay trails
    to treasure troves of toes
    curled in feral footfalls, pleading
    passion never spent
    by mere momentary release.

    Fingers print patient
    paths that forage
    and plunder, paying due attention
    to the oft-ignored: the braille
    of goosebumps; the choreography
    of an arched back; the poetry
    of a whimper.

    © 2014 by Jennifer R.R. Mueller

  9. Want to rearrange your bookshelves? Sadie can help.

This is her helping. Much help.

    Want to rearrange your bookshelves? Sadie can help.

    This is her helping. Much help.

  10. Synecdoche

    But we’re not part of breathing,
    I suppose — no need for fingers
    tangled in tresses, for silences stilted
    by gap-toothed gasps. No need
    for mercy, after all. We know

    the rhythms of wavelengths
    beat by begging tongues, belabored
    by the bitter branching between
    because and resolve. The brow,
    ever furrowed; the mind,
    ever bent.

    Toward neon-lit doorways, perhaps,
    we tread, skulking
    among the tremorous reaches
    of dawn’s quick and early
    grasp. Dark we find feeds
    and fills imagination’s trenches —
    we make our own way.

    We cannot be lost,
    where once we had each other.

    © 2014 by Jennifer R.R. Mueller