The Weight of Cinnamon
The rain always smelled like bruised plums after a summer storm. It
FeiMatrix
Emerald Echoes
The rain always seemed to find me in corners.
Not dramatic downpours,
Velvet Echoes
The rain fell in shards against the windowpane, a familiar percussion to
Static Bloom
The rain tasted like regret and cheap whiskey.
It clung to the
Velvet Echoes
The rain always smelled like regret in this city. It clung to
Salt & Silence
The sand still held his scent—a ghost of rain and something
Echoes in Obsidian Sand
The salt spray tasted of regret, a familiar tang. It clung to
Echoes in the Tide
The salt spray tasted of regret, a familiar bitterness clinging to my
The Salt of Remembering
The wind tasted of salt and something older – a residue of tides
Salt & Echoes
The sand remembers.
It clings to my skin, a residue of the
Golden Echoes
The rain had finally yielded, a bruised purple yielding to the tentative
Salt & Static
The rain fractured.
Each drop, a borrowed memory.
Skin slicked with ghosts
