Page 4 of The Words of Us

But it’s the details that make it mine. The bookshelves that line one wall are crammed full of poetry collections, some of them dog-eared and marked with notes from years of reading. I’ve hung framed pages of my favorite poems on the walls—Audre Lorde, Mary Oliver, Langston Hughes—each one a reminder of the voices that shaped me.

The tiny desk near the window is cluttered with notebooks, scraps of paper, pens, and candles that burn down too quickly because I’m always lighting them when I write. There’s a typewriter on the floor next to it, an old relic I found at a yardsale that I never actually use but keep around because it feels like it belongs here. A worn-out armchair sits in the corner, a perfect spot for reading, with a small table beside it holding a cup of half-finished coffee, a stack of half-read books, and a journal filled with scribbled lines that might one day become poems.

Fairy lights hang haphazardly along the ceiling, casting a soft glow that makes the whole space feel warm and lived-in. I’ve got art scattered everywhere—photographs of jazz musicians, abstract paintings I picked up from local artists, and collages I made myself out of torn-up magazines and postcards. There’s no real theme to it, just pieces that speak to me in some way. It’s cluttered, but it’s a creative kind of clutter, the kind that makes you feel like anything is possible.

This little apartment, with its creaky floors and chipped paint, is where I come alive. It’s where I write, where I reflect, where I let the ghosts of the past drift through without letting them settle. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It’s a place where I can be myself—messy, complicated, always searching—and somehow, that feels just right.

Hung up by the door next to my tattered denim jacket are my work clothes—a black t-shirt with the logo of a local wing bar plastered across the front and a pair of worn-out jeans that have seen more spills than I care to remember. I only do a few shifts a week, just enough to cover rent and keep the fridge stocked with basics, but it’s far from glamorous. The wing bar’s not exactly a dream gig—sticky floors, loud crowds, and the smell of fried food that clings to you long after you’ve clocked out—but the tips are good. Really good.

It’s the kind of place where regulars come in like clockwork, and if you can smile, flirt a little, and keep their drinks full, you walk out with your pockets lined. The music is always cranked up too loud, and by the end of a shift, my feet are screaming and my voice is hoarse from shouting over the noise. But in a city likeNew Orleans where rent’s creeping up and the freelance poetry submissions don’t exactly pay the bills, it’s a job I’m grateful for. Even if it means I have to scrub the grease out of my hair every other night.

I don’t hate it, though. The place has a certain charm to it, the kind that only a dive bar with sticky tables and neon signs can offer. The regulars know my name, and some of the guys in the kitchen can actually make me laugh when the night slows down. It’s loud, messy, and exhausting, but it’s also another piece of this life I’ve built here, another way I stay grounded. I figure as long as I’ve got a place to write, a community to be a part of, and enough cash to keep the lights on, I’m doing alright.

I glance at the work clothes hanging there by the door and smile to myself. It’s not forever, but for now, it’s enough.

In the few years I’ve been here, I’ve made a handful of friends, but none like Glass. He’s not just a friend; he’s the kind of person who lights up a room without even trying, a force of creativity and personality that draws people to him like moths to a flame. We met at a poetry reading in the back of some dingy bar in the Bywater, and he stood out instantly—not just because of his sharp, angular style or the way he carried himself like a work of art, but because of the way he spoke. His words were like nothing I’d ever heard before—fluid, abstract, somehow both piercing and soft.

Even now, I don’t know his birth name, and I don’t ask. It’s part of his mystique. He’s Glass, and that’s all he needs to be. The way he uses his name in his poetry is incredible. He plays with the concepts of transparency, fragility, and reflection; sometimes he’s clear as glass, and other times, he’s sharp enough to cut. It’s like his entire identity is woven into these layers of meaning, this constant dance between how the world sees him and how he sees himself.

His poems are like puzzles, shards of language that catch the light in different ways depending on how you look at them. I remember one of his pieces vividly. It was about standing in front of a mirror and realizing that glass both reveals and conceals, that you can see through it but it also reflects back everything you’re hiding. It was beautiful and haunting, like most of what he writes.

We hit it off instantly, bonding over our love of words, and now we’re practically inseparable. Glass has a way of showing up at the most unexpected times, pulling me out of whatever funk I’m in with some wild story or a spontaneous idea for a new piece. He pushes me creatively and personally, in ways I didn’t even know I needed. We spend hours wandering the city, talking about art and life, sometimes stopping to watch a street performer or duck into a random gallery.

Glass is the kind of friend who makes you feel like you’re part of something bigger than yourself, like the world is one huge, unfolding piece of art. Even in this city full of characters, he’s someone who stands out, not just because of his talent but because of the way he sees the world. And somehow, he’s always made space for me in that world, even when I wasn’t sure I fit anywhere.

With him around, life in New Orleans is never dull, and neither is the poetry.

3

EVIE

It’s a quiet Wednesday evening, the kind of night when the bookstore feels more like a sanctuary than a business. The midweek poetry nights are smaller, more intimate, just a handful of us gathered in the soft glow of the lamps scattered around the room. The hum of the city outside feels distant, muted by the thick walls and the comforting presence of books.

These Wednesday sessions aren’t as busy as the weekend ones, but there’s something special about them. The regulars who come midweek are the ones who have found their rhythm here. They know the space, they know each other, and they come not just to perform but to listen, to let the words sink in more deeply without the distraction of a bustling crowd. There’s a peacefulness to it, a slower, quieter appreciation for the craft.

Tonight, there’s a young man standing up at the microphone. He’s new to the scene, just started at the state college. He’s got that fresh, eager look about him. His face is still rounded with youth, and his clothes are a little too neatly pressed, like he’s trying to fit in without losing himself in the process. He’s clutching a notebook in both hands, the paper shaking ever so slightly, and his eyes keep darting up from the page to the few ofus scattered around the room, as if he’s searching for some sign of approval.

His voice is soft, almost too soft for spoken poetry, but the words—there’s something special there. He writes beautifully. His lines are intricate, delicate even, like lacework carefully stitched together. There’s potential in his work, something raw and promising, but I can tell he’s struggling to let it breathe in front of an audience. His shyness weighs down his delivery, making him stumble over the words and hiding the beauty of the images he’s crafted behind a nervous whisper.

I sit in the back, watching him carefully and listening to the quiet brilliance of his work that’s just waiting to break through. But spoken poetry might not be for him—not yet, anyway. He’s the kind of writer who needs time and space to grow into his voice, to let it find the strength to match the power of his pen. I can see it, even if he can’t just yet.

The others in the room are kind, offering encouraging nods and soft smiles, trying to put him at ease. He finishes his poem, his voice trailing off like he’s not sure if he’s really done, and there’s a moment of quiet before we applaud, warm and genuine. He looks relieved, but still unsure, like he’s not quite convinced he belongs here.

Afterward, he quietly retreats to a chair in the corner, his notebook clutched tightly against his chest, and I find myself hoping he’ll keep coming back. He’s got something, that much is clear. And maybe with time, he’ll learn to let his words take up the space they deserve. For now, though, I’m just happy to have him here, to be part of his journey, even if it’s only a small part.

This is why I love these midweek nights. They’re quieter, sure, but there’s something about the space we create here, something that allows for growth and discovery in ways the busier weekend crowds don’t always allow. It’s a place for the tentative, the uncertain, the ones still finding their voice. Andtonight, it feels like we’ve planted a seed that, with a little patience, might just bloom into something beautiful.

The door swings open, and a gust of the outside world rushes in with it—humid, heavy, and full of life. It disrupts the stillness of the bookstore, the scent of rain and street vendors mixing with the soft light inside. I glance up, half-expecting another regular, but what I see catches me entirely off guard.

She’s late, bustling in with a kind of hurried energy, her presence instantly commanding the room. She has dark, windswept hair that’s half pulled back, messy in the way that suggests it wasn’t styled to be perfect, but it somehow works. She’s breathing a little too fast, her chest rising and falling under a loose, cropped sweater, as if she’d been running to get here. Her eyes, sharp and alive, dart around the room, scanning to see if she’s missed everything. They’re the kind of eyes that don’t just see, theysearch—deep, piercing, as if they could unravel a person with a single glance.

The moment our eyes meet, it’s like the air in the room shifts. Something inside me jolts, like a spark igniting from deep within. It’s intense, unexpected, and I have to remind myself to breathe. I’m rooted to the spot, my fingers curling tighter around the coffee cup in front of me, grounding myself against the sudden rush of emotion. There’s a gravity to her, a force that seems to pull everything in the room toward her, even me.

She’s dressed casually, but there’s something about her presence that makes it feel deliberate. A pair of worn jeans, boots that look like they’ve seen more than a few cities, and that sweater—half falling off one shoulder, exposing a tattoo I can’t quite make out from where I’m sitting. There’s a quiet defiance in the way she carries herself, a sense that she’s completely herself and yet somehow unpredictable.

She pauses, her eyes locking onto mine for the briefest of moments, and the intensity doubles. It’s like the room narrows,the sound of shuffling papers and soft murmurs fading into the background. My heart skips—literally misses a beat—and I can’t explain why. It’s as if she brings the storm inside with her, carrying the weight of something more than just herself.

She exhales, and in that moment, I feel it—a connection, a pull I can’t name but can’t ignore. I have no idea who she is, but I know this much: I need to find out.

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