Writing

She didn't text him

And as her eyes watched a flashing screen,

her happiness 

Thaws

She sent the message

And as she goes unanswered now,

Her comfort

Thaws 

Beneath the slow breath of morning soil,
the onion hums and its layered heart asleep,
a pale globe guarding tears untold.
Nearby, garlic dreams in clustered cloves,
its scent a fierce devotion to the earth.

Tiny ceramic bird, frozen in midair. Are you doomed to spend eternity seeking a flower you will never see? Spiderwebs cover your body as you dangle from a wire, staring at a pole of wood, cracks forming with time.

DN24. R6. The metal numbers are still there. Clinging faithfully to the wooden electric post, tacked down with more fervor, probably by someone tired of the defeated, dangling look of them, rather than the city. My gas station cup of Dr.

We’ve known about global warming for years. Slowly, the insects are dying off.

Sometimes I wonder about the person I seem to be.

Is she truly me or someone else entirely?

Is it real or just a mask?

And if she's just a mask, then who am I?

Am I surrounded by lights?

Or shadows?