The Crimson Sphere of Quiet Belonging
My life was a series of sterile gray rectangles—concrete walls, glowing
Urban Romance
Crimson Pulp on a Porcelain Porch
The city is a grinding machine, all steel teeth and smog-stained concrete.
The Pale Echo of a Solar Heartbeat
My skin remembers things I have never known—the hum of subterranean
Lavender Sighs Under an Open Sky
I used to believe that love was a storm—something loud, demanding,
The Alchemy of Aisle Seven
I feel the invisible threads of an architect pulling me into place,
The Fragile Geometry of a Summer Wish
I have spent my life curated like an exhibit in a glass
The Amber Hour in a Neon Desert
I have spent my life curated like a gallery piece—all white
The Yellow Hour Before Midnight
I used to count the minutes by the flicker of fluorescent lights
An Echo in the Concrete Tide
I stand here, at the intersection where time seems to fold upon
The Last Stop Before Memory Fades
I used to track time by the rumble of the midnight bus
The Clockwork Heart's Quiet Thaw
My heart had long been an ornate machine of rusted iron and
The Lace Alibi of a Quiet Heart
I am wearing white lace—a sartorial surrender. In this city, where
