The Weight of Small Things
I keep a pressed blue cornflower inside the pages of a dictionary, its color now more shadow than petal. It is brittle, a ghost of a summer that felt like it would never end, yet slipped away the moment I turned my head. We spend so much of…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Keeper of the Quiet
I keep a small, rusted brass key in a velvet-lined box, though I have long since forgotten which door it once opened. It is heavy for its size, worn smooth by the friction of a pocket or the nervous rubbing of a thumb. We collect these remnants…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Salt on the Skin
The air near the water has a specific weight, a dampness that clings to the back of the throat like cold wool. I remember the taste of salt on my lips after a long day spent walking the shoreline, the way the wind pulls at your hair until it…