The Weight of Gravity
It is 3:14 am. The house is holding its breath, and I am thinking about the things we try to keep suspended. We spend our lives fighting the inevitable pull of the earth, trying to hold onto moments that were never meant to stay still. We want…
The Salt on the Skin
The memory of summer is not a sight; it is the sting of salt drying on my shoulders and the sudden, sharp chill of water against overheated skin. I remember the way the air tasted—heavy with ozone and the metallic tang of wet concrete. There…
The Weight of Distance
I often think of the things we leave behind on the edges of maps, those quiet outposts where the pavement gives way to dust and the horizon stretches out like an unread letter. There is a specific kind of dignity in an object that waits, day…