Category: Uncategorized

I want to take care of a canvas that already knows another hand. I tell myself this is restoration, not destruction, that the careful stripping away of pigment is an act of love. I soften the surface with patience and solvents. The paint loosens like old scabs, like memories that no longer bleed but still…

I am trying to make a candle that smells like the street after it rains. Not the rain itself, not the clean idea of water falling, but the moment afterward, when the heat rises back up from the ground and the asphalt exhales. It is a dark, mineral breath, almost sweet, almost bitter, and it…

I loved running as a way to work out. I loved how it gave me an ideal body—not a billboard body, not Brad Pitt in Fight Club, not carved for the gaze—but a body that felt earned, explained, and defensible. Running made me feel confident in how I looked naked, in the quiet honesty of a…

I keep a flower pressed between my warm pages, its petals thinned to translucence, its color softened to a whisper, and I tell myself it will live as long as my love—forever, if forever can be held still. Once dried, it forgets the urgency of blooming and instead leans into the quiet endurance of memory.…

Light travels like a slow confession, crossing distances so vast they might as well be measured in regrets instead of miles, and when I look up tonight the star I’m reaching for is already gone, extinguished long before its beauty ever reached my eyes. I stand beneath the dark bowl of sky and realize I…

It happens quietly, the way a flower decides to bloom in front of me, as if the air between us softens enough for it to dare opening. I watch the petals loosen their grip on secrecy, unfolding subtle tremors of color, and I feel chosen—not in the possessive way, but in the gentle way one…

Steam loosens its grip on the room as I step from the shower, droplets clinging to me like tiny questions I’m not ready to answer. The mirror is still blurred, a soft haze that delays the truth. I lift my hand and wipe a swath through the fog, and there I am—clearer than I want…

Casually we are taught that sand can become glass, that something loose and ordinary can be changed by pressure and heat into something that holds light, and we believe it without seeing the furnace, the long patience of burning that makes clarity possible. Love is not that different, though we rarely call it that at…

They taught me about the face as if it were something you hold gently, not something you put on. The face is the surface where care happens. It is the practiced art of not disturbing the air unnecessarily. To keep face is to read the room before you read yourself, to smooth your voice so…

In the quiet, I notice how effortful stillness can be. It is not peace so much as an open space that asks to be filled. My thoughts are slow, but they do not settle. What rises instead is the memory of a voice—gentle, patient, familiar in a way that once made the world feel more…