The Warmth Between Two Heartbeats
I used to think that happiness was a grand event—a promotion,
Laundry Line
The Scent of Sunday in a Tuesday City
I stepped out of the subway and into a gust of wind
The Color of a Quiet Afternoon
He always smelled like cedar and cold morning air, a scent that
The Golden Weight of a Moment
My city is usually a roar—sirens, subway shrieks, the relentless hum
The Sweetness Between Seconds
I can still smell the linen spray on my skin, a faint
The Golden Hour Between Floors
I always wear this black dress when I want to feel like
The Weight of a Paper Wish
He smells like cedarwood and the kind of silence you only find
The Aperture Between Us
I’ve always preferred the world through a lens; it allows me
The Scent of Stardust and Cotton
I have spent three years in Tokyo learning how to be invisible—
The Scent of Apricot Sundays
I used to think love was a storm—all thunder and sudden
The Lavender Hour Between Two Hearts
I used to think love was like the city skyline—bright, distant,
The Saffron Hour in a Concrete City
I used to think that living in the city meant accepting a
