The Weight of Stillness
The smell of cold glass against a forehead is a specific kind of loneliness. It is the scent of damp wool and the metallic tang of a city that has forgotten your name. I remember leaning against a bus window when I was younger, the vibration…
The Weight of Stone
I keep a small, smooth river stone in the pocket of my winter coat, a weight I often find myself rubbing between my thumb and forefinger when the world feels too thin. It was pulled from a creek bed years ago, back when time seemed to move…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Weight of Fading Gold
I keep a pressed marigold inside a heavy dictionary, its edges now translucent and brittle as a moth’s wing. It was plucked in the final, frantic heat of August years ago, back when time felt like a river that would never run dry. When I…