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The Edge of the Lawn
He held the edging shearslike the world only stayed steadyif he kept cutting.Like order was a thing he could still shapewith his hands,one clean snip at a time. I stood beside him,small, bright,orbiting his gravitywithout understanding its pull. He didn’t teach with words.He taught with posture,with the slow choreography of care,with the quiet insistencethat some…
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A Hinge That Creaks When You Touch It
The end of the year doesn’t merely arrive.It accumulateslike dust in corners,like thoughts you meant to throw outbut kept because they hummed when you touched them. Time gets slippery here.Days stack crooked.Hours lean against each otherlike they’re tired of holding themselves upright. You start hearing thingslike the soft click of a calendar shedding its skin,the…
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Frost On the Window
Frost on the window isn’t weather,it’s handwriting.Someone, something,scribbling messages in a languageyour breath almost understands. The patterns aren’t patterns.They’re maps.Blueprints.Veins of a creaturethat only exists when the temperature dropsand forgets itself when the sun returns. Sometimes the frost looks like branches,but the trees outside swearthey’ve never grown that way.Sometimes it looks like feathers,but no bird…
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A Sorry Habit
I say sorry for the weather, sorry for my shoes, sorry for the way silence sits heavy between us.My mouth is a coin purse and the word jingles out whenever the room tilts a degree I don’t like.I apologise like a habit. I apologise for walking into a room with too much thought, for folding…
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Ten Fingers, Ten Toes
There was a day the world telescoped to my small hands,palms cupped like two safe houses, toes tucked under like secrets.Perfection was a count: one by one, the little lights,all ten blinking OK beneath the blanket of a house that smelled like toast. I could measure myself then; fingers against cheek, toes against rug,and the…
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Weather In My Ribs 