The Temperature of Silence
He speaks in low frequencies, the kind that settle beneath the skin
Minimalism
The Alabaster Silence of Midday
The city is a carnivorous beast, all steel teeth and neon blood
The Geometry of a Quiet Heartbeat
I have stripped away the neon noise of Tokyo. The world is
The Architecture of a Sigh
I have stripped away the blue of my dress and the gold
The Geometry of a Heartbeat
I have stripped away the gold of these fields and the turquoise
Moonlight on Bare Skin
The city is a distant hum, remembered only in the rhythm of
The Golden Hour’s Last Breath
The city was a grid of cold grey and flickering neon, where
The Silver Hour of Us
The world is too loud in color, so I have stripped it
The Architecture of a Sigh
I have forgotten the language of color. My world is now a
The Geometry of a Golden Hour
I have learned to strip the world of its noise until only
Under a Painted Sky
The city was too loud. For months, my heart beat in time
Sunlight on Salted Skin
The city has a way of demanding too much—too many deadlines,
