Nonsense is a collection of poems that move like memory pretending not to be meaningful-intimate, fractured, luminous in places it should not be, and quietly devastating in the places it refuses to explain. Across its pages, love appears in many unstable forms: as liquid devotion, as almost-touch, as the weight of someone sleeping on your arm. It lingers in cafés on unnamed streets, in last kisses that don't announce their endings, in the shared collapse of two people weeping without language for what they are losing or becoming. But Nonsense is not only about closeness. It is also about the self dissolving and returning. It asks what it means to die to yourself in the name of love, what it costs to become something larger than one person, and whether that expansion is salvation or disappearance. It listens to danger when it speaks softly, when it disguises itself as comfort, when it teaches you to ignore your own boundaries until they no longer feel like your own.