The fire inched toward me before I could feel its heat. By the time it reached me, I was numb to it and unaware I was being burned.
I'll gather them all in a crumpled pile and watch as they writhe and convulse beneath the flame. Suddenly, they are gone. It's tragic that I can't do the same.
There's nothing left inside// the ink well is dry, my hand was stayed// nothing more to confide// silence on an empty stage
I loved flying kites when I was little... The way they bobbed and swayed upon invisible, tumultuous waves. The way they could be seen by friends, near and far, both close friends and formerly unknown folks, and silently call a gathering that would add to the fleet of flying vessels across the town. My mother... Continue Reading →
I tend to hold onto memories like sentimental letters from long-lost friends. In a way, that's exactly what they are, but some letters are meant to collect dust for a very long time before they're read so as not to be misconstrued, and some are meant to be burned. I can remember when I was... Continue Reading →