The Geometry of Departure
There is a peculiar weight to the things we watch disappear. We stand on the edge of a threshold, whether it is a shoreline or a doorway, and we track the slow retreat of something that was once entirely present. It is a strange, quiet labor,…
The Weight of Gold
Autumn is a slow surrender, a quiet loosening of the grip that trees hold on their own history. We watch the leaves turn, not because they are dying, but because they are finally ready to let go of the sun they have spent months gathering.…
The Salt on the Tongue
The air here tastes of wet silt and the sharp, metallic tang of coming rain. It is a heavy, humid breath that clings to the back of the throat, thick with the scent of crushed leaves and ancient, submerged roots. When I close my eyes, I can…