"The overpass knows its purpose: to hold the instant taut, a moment hung between moments where thought crosses thought, where the self meets the self and one must give way."

“I spent the morning destroying evidence” the world mistook it for care. What else have we perfected, besides vanishing beautifully?

For anyone who built castles from couch cushions, ruled kingdoms in glitter shoes, or heard secrets in puddles, this is for you. A call to play again with wonder in your pocket and dirt on your knees. Step into this realm where the sky is candy and the worms are wise.

A bouquet split in half. A bee whispers at the edge of goodbye. Petals fall into dinner, and still, she leaves gently, like something wild remembering how to bloom.

What if your dining table remembered the forest? This spoken-land acknowledgment isn’t ceremonial, it’s personal, physical, and deeply inconvenient. A poem that walks barefoot through the house, naming the cost of comfort, and whispering sorry to every floorboard.

To be watched is not the same as being seen. A piece about visibility, misunderstanding, and the deliberate rebellion of withholding yourself.

A soft-spoken reckoning. A ritual for when the world comes calling.

I’ve never quite understood keys. Or how something so small can decide if you’re allowed back in. In "Keys", part of the "Things I Don’t Understand" series, I try to unlock a door. The door has thoughts. The key has memory. And apparently, I have something to answer for.

There are signs that point left. Signs that point right. And then there are signs that point "Up"... Without explanation, context, or the courtesy of being metaphorical.

"There’s a bench with the arm broken off. The paint flakes like pages left in the sun. A pigeon nests underneath it like permanence could be proximity. And someone stands nearby: still fading, still here. Almost sitting. Almost gone"

He has everything. Still, he wants. A poetic autopsy of power and the man it unravels.

Twelve chickens. One plate. And the haunting begins. A surprisingly spiritual dive into a late-night chicken binge.

“My labor tree has yet to flower, but grows taller, likes to mock me.” A poem about patient hope and tending without proof.

What secrets lie beneath the reef’s shimmering surface? Dive into a poetic exploration of underwater politics, hidden alliances, and silent dramas .

"If the world bruises you blue, I’ll still be here. Tea warm. Light low. Quiet enough to hear you."

I sip the hour. I taste the air. Not every day glows, but most days hum. This is a piece about those days.

I don’t reach for the past, but it finds me. Like an unsent note in a jacket pocket, still folded. Still warm.