The dark, warm plume begins to spiral high,A bitter velvet cloud against the pane,And in that fragrant steam, beneath the eye,The past returns, defying sun or rain.It is the scent of mornings laced with gold,The sharp, narcotic call of...

The past sits on my tongue, an aphasic weight. It is not an absence, but a presence, a collection of moments so vivid they have no easy words. I can see the afternoon light slanting across the worn floorboards...

The world exhales a breath of fractured glass, where the long shadow of the night won't yield a silent, gray, and desolate design revealed. It holds its ground—a monochrome morass. No gentle dawn lifts the persistent gloom, a sound of...