The Taste of Sunday Afternoon
My city life is a series of sharp edges and cold glass,
Laundry Line
The Soft Echo of Concrete Dreams
The concrete is cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the
The Scent of Chlorine and Starlight
He always smells like old books and cold morning air, but today
Salt Air and Linen Dreams
I used to think love was a series of grand gestures—bouquets
The Architecture of a Sunday Afternoon
I have always believed that love isn't found in grand
The Scent of Summer Starlight
I had spent three years chasing deadlines in a glass tower where
The Fragrance of Rain-Dampened Wool
I stood at the edge of the pier, letting the gray mist
The Weight of Quiet Afternoons
I’ve always found solace in things that hold their breath—the
The Golden Hour Between Two Heartbeats
I always thought the city was too loud to let me hear
The Scent of Rain and White Lace
I stand here in the middle of Shinjuku, where the neon lights
The Warmth Between Two Heartbeats
I used to think that happiness was a grand event—a promotion,
The Scent of Sunday in a Tuesday City
I stepped out of the subway and into a gust of wind
