The Frequency of Salt and Skin
I have spent three years living as a ghost in the machine,
Cerulean Sighs Under a Gilded Sun
The city is a concrete scream, but here—on this ancient stone
The Silver Current’s Quiet Rebellion
My heart is a rusted chassis, long dormant under the neon smog
The Rust of Time and Your Warmth
I am a ghost in my own city, drifting through concrete veins
The Scent of Rain on Silk and Skin
A shard: The smell of damp asphalt and expensive espresso. I am
The Architecture of a Sunbeam
I am becoming a projection of the morning. In this city that
The Golden Packet Loss
I am a ghost in my own life, an encrypted file buried
The Temperature of Forgiveness
He thinks he knows me because he’s seen my spreadsheets and
The Weight of Morning Light
My head is still swimming with the ghost of last night'
The Rain That Remembered Us
I always thought the city’s pulse was measured by the rhythmic
The Saltwater Rhythm of Us
I had forgotten how to be still until I returned here, where
The Pale Fever of Spring
I am a creature carved from concrete and cold fluorescent light, my
