Seraphic Slumber

I’ve never experienced anything like this before – this beautifully vulnerable intimacy. The kind where you remain one inch from each other’s face, and still, star-crossed and googly-eyed, find the other to be a sugarcoated kind of irresistible. In one way or another, we are always touching when we doze in a dulcet haze.

Coming Soon

Each person has a passion. All of us have a fire that sits dormant in the pit of our souls. But it only takes one spark to ignite it, and once that happens, it’s fireworks. And there is no going back. For me, that fire comes in the form of the written word. In stories. In literature. In the piles and piles of books I have scattered throughout my bedroom.

Sea Strung Sailor

Let me disavow my anchors, and set forth on wooden pleats of cherry and oak. I will stumble with the rising tide and cure my wanderlust eyes that yearn to dance with the Northern lights and the pirouette of Polaris.

For My Mother, with Love

She is a goddess of motherhood and soothes like tender chamomile. She molds my Play-Doh dreams into brick houses that arch to the sky. And with her hand holding mine, we build bridges of full lives of coral and copper sands, where she teaches me of womanhood and wild independence like only the fiercest mother can.


No one could figure her out, and yet, she was unnervingly simplistic in everything she did. She would fold paper lanterns just to set them on fire – watch them burn against the horizon’s dying light. And with a curated whisper she would let those skyfires satiate her wanderlust, for her feet could never stand still.