The Dust of Leaving
The air in an empty room has a specific weight, a thickness that tastes of dry limestone and forgotten winters. When I walk into a space that has been stripped of its purpose, I can feel the grit of pulverized concrete against my palms, a fine,…
The Weight of Unchosen Paths
I keep a small, rusted iron key in a velvet pouch, though I have no idea which door it once opened. It is heavy, cold to the touch, and worn smooth by hands that have long since turned to dust. There is a peculiar ache in holding something…
The Weight of a Gaze
In the quiet hours of the morning, when the house is still and the coffee has long since cooled, I often find myself thinking about the nature of observation. We are taught that to look is to take, to possess, to claim a piece of the world…