Stained by the Sun
The air tastes of chalk and crushed petals, a dry, sweet grit that settles on the back of the throat. I remember the feeling of skin slick with damp powder, the way it clings to the creases of your palms and the hollows of your collarbone like…
The Weight of the Kneel
We carry our burdens as if they were heavy stones in our pockets. We walk, we work, we endure the cold, and we rarely stop to set the load down. There is a particular posture required to acknowledge that the world is larger than our own exhaustion.…
The Threshold of Silence
If a door stands in the middle of nowhere, does it still hold the weight of an invitation? We spend our lives obsessed with the rooms we occupy, the walls we build, and the thresholds we cross to define our belonging. We treat these barriers…