"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"

"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.