On my way home today I thought of your smile over the french press we shared. And I thought of the same sunny day when we walked together. The air was warm. The friends were near. You laughed at my idiosyncrasy, which I took as a compliment, more seriously than any of those you gave on my clothes or belongings.

The night was numbingly warm. I put on my hood, not wanting to talk. The man from the street waved and said hi, longing for reciprocation. He was simply there at the wrong time, poking at the wrong heart. My breaths were short as if something had found its way to my throat. I could hardly swallow it. The wind…

I sat on the green benches on the subway. I missed one stop. What kept me here. I hopped off the train and walked to the other side. Four o’clock.

“I’m a fluid boundary between what I want to say and what I’m going to say,” the girl across me read from a piece of paper. “I’m keeping…

In her car there was an old issue of Interior Design with a soft purple cover. Wrinkled. When I flipped to that page my hand stopped. A bathroom with different textures of white. A block of light rendered by slight curves. I had the window down and tears in my eyes. Years ago I stood by an ocean where the water…

Whenever I want to write something with no start, end, or plot, I think of you. Then words come out as if they have always been there, under a rock. You used to be a shadow in my quiet dreams — there I saw you with my eyes closed. Your figure was a feather, swaying in silence.