A stark contrast to this time last year.
Words coupling up on an autumnal page.
Unromanticizing the ego to make way for something new.
“It’s better to write for yourself and have no public than to write for the public and have no self” Cyril Connolly
I do: two small words sealed her fate in more ways than one.
Letting go of the leaves that hold fast to us.
Another night of broken slumber leaves them in the dark.
When 17 syllables help you say it best.
Sometimes it feels like we’re being consumed.
Every fire can be put out. Even the wildest ones.