The Summer We Stopped Running After the Last Bus
I spent three years mastering the art of arriving just as you
Terminal Chronicler
The 4:00 AM Sunlight Treaty
I used to believe that love was like the last bus at
The Rain That Remembered Us
I always thought the city’s pulse was measured by the rhythmic
The Harbor’s Last White Breath
I have spent three years learning the rhythm of this city—how
The Amber Hour of Waiting
I have always been a creature of the periphery, watching life unfold
The Last Train to a Summer We Almost Forgot
I always thought love was like the express train—fast, loud, and
The Golden Hour of Our Quiet Return
I used to think love was like the city's last
The Aftertaste of August at 11 PM
I used to believe that love was a train you had to
The Shore Where We Finally Arrived
I remember the way you looked at me through the window of
The Last Train to a Pink Summer
I used to think love was like the 11:45 PM bus—
The Temperature of a Shared Silence
The concrete of the sidewalk still holds onto today's heat,
The Red Ribbon at Route 402
I have spent three years watching the last bus pull away from
