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.


Here lives lie in petals and ornate carvings. And I, I am overtaken by what remains in the lettering my fingertips trace. The flesh on the back of my neck rises in Braille, here among broken ground and still waters. I kiss the names of the sacrificed, and exit under ivory archways.

Papa’s House

Papa’s house always smelled of pancake batter. Pancakes and orange and vanilla musk from his aftershave. The warm haze of the stove’s steam left me an eager five-year-old, awaiting the sound of the spatula’s spin and the sizzle of butter and cooking oil. Nothing else could beat the privilege he always gave me of topping each pancake with six chocolate chips. In all of his cooking perfection, he always managed to maintain the texture of the chocolate, so that the chips would melt on my tongue rather than in the cushion of pan-heated batter.

Paper Airplanes

I saw them drift past the cathedral, heard the bells toll for 4:30 mass, and thought that if we were higher than the church itself, we must somehow be closer to God. Two happy hearts, living in scuffed-soled shoes above our one-mile radius world.

On Loss and Love

Nothing you love is lost. Not really. Things, people–they always go away sooner or later. You can’t hold them anymore than you can hold moonlight. But if they’ve touched you, if they’re inside you, then they’re still yours. The only things you ever really have are the ones you hold inside your heart. – Bruce […]