fiddling hair, like reeds bent to a hum. pine groves split open into Monday; sunlight combs the needles clean. the day still opening, blue after
My grandmother is full of stories. She can speak endlessly about raising my dad and his brothers, the books she has read, bird sightings, recent
And the flowers dance when they fall Gracefully flicking and flipping Elegantly twisting and turning Landing with a flourish The way leaves usually do. And
Before me, the sun dips towards a sunset As majestic as a phoenix pet It soars through the fire Patrolling its grand empire Wisps of
There are books I’ve meant to read when the lights are on the low that escape the dead and gone and the hurt that’s hard
And while they’re erasing our future they try but cannot succeed at erasing our past- When the soil where you sign your decrees was plowed
Dear Celine, I received a text a while ago which I believe was a plea from a lover, I trust you know who, and I
I see here now, standing in the midst of birch and gravelled roads a field of war; a battle lost fought long before my time.
I stand here, a hall where ancient passions lay long-dead, and buried under stones stacked high with skill, that proudly show their age as if
Many things end Meaningfully I bloom Many feet run I follow them Graffiti came and washed away the mess of birth I carved a pumpkin
I find delight in the subtle things, The sound of the rain, Poetry, Bamboo flutes and healing ragas, Hour-long baths and Korean Dramas.
At times you may feel weak, Exhausted, Broken. Though as the days go by, You shall see, How your mind is constantly dismantled, And put
In the Summer of ‘24, I was set upon by thoughts and feelings that beckoned to become words. Tales of anticipation, mundane tasks, aimless wandering,
My love, tell me why you will not speak of the dead brown children in Gaza tonight Do you, not mourn me As I wade
In the faraway nightscape, where the stars make funny shapes I somehow see you clearly, even on the cloudiest nights Eighty-eight constellations, and yours is
Warmth is folded away as unwilling prey,Wrapped in worn, fading memories,Swathed in subtropical musings.Warmth is stashed in a den by Orion’s bard,By the hunter that
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