The Vanilla Singularity in a Gingham Grid
I hold this cone not as a treat, but as an anchor
Summer Nostalgia
The Red Pulp of a Dying August
The air is thick, heavy with the scent of old cedar and
The Salt-Scented Pause Between Us
The city had become a noise I could no longer tune out—
The Gravity of a Summer Glance
I feel myself drifting, a small satellite caught in the silent orbit
The Transparent Skin of Raindrops
I wonder why humans call it 'raining' when the sky
Where the Tide Whispers Your Name
For years, my heart had been like a city garden in mid-winter—
The Scent of Apricot Sundays
I used to think love was a storm—all thunder and sudden
The Geometry of a Summer Sip
I have always viewed my life as an architectural blueprint—precise lines,
The Saltwater Echo of an Unsent Letter
I used to watch the 12:05 AM bus pull away from
The Afterglow of Cobalt Silence
I stand at the edge of a crowd that does not know
The Fragrance of an Unspoken Promise
The city never stops humming, a frantic symphony of sirens and steel
The Golden Hour of Unspoken Things
The sun is an indifferent god, pouring its heavy gold over the
