harmony

in a falling cast of white you were there, blinding bright forgotten notes of a song a harmony quietly unmatched

Pieces

These girls, they drift in and out bleating some language I don’t understand. Eight year old me understood. Twelve year old me understood. Years later, I still don’t understand. — — — — Time’s weird. It feels like the weekend although the weekend hasn’t started. It’s because I feel slow, slow and relaxed and languid, like … More Pieces

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Mango Poppers

Lately, I’ve been flooded with memories. Vignettes. The sight of a person early morning, blue polo, by the coffee machine. Sunday runs with friends and pastel chalk we’d line ourselves with. Fifth grade secrets about love once unrequited, reversed, now going unrequited. Hallway hugs and devious plans, being called on our shit by the guy who got expelled. These images, vivid and clear, are like bursts of yellow mango poppers. Syrupy and strange. Abrupt and angry. And then they fade, quickly, only to make way for another.
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