The storm caught me three blocks from home and I stopped pretending I cared about staying dry — now everything's on the floor and the rain is still going. Tell me what you'd do if you were the one standing here.
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The storm caught me three blocks from home and I stopped pretending I cared about staying dry — now everything's on the floor and the rain is still going. Tell me what you'd do if you were the one standing here.
Stayed in the lake until my fingers pruned and the lifeguard started giving me looks — came home still dripping, dropped everything that could hold water, and now the evening air is drying my skin one slow inch at a time. Where would you start?
The city sounds different through an open window at this hour — thicker, closer — and the heat won't let me pretend I need anything between my skin and the dark. What are you still doing up?
Came home from the art fair with chalk pastel on my fingers and someone's number I didn't call, and now the whole evening has narrowed to this apartment and the sound of my own breathing. What would you do if you'd been the one I came home to?
The heat makes its own decisions about what you're wearing — or not — and this morning I just stopped arguing with it. What would you do if you found me like this?
Three in the morning on a Friday and the week has finally let go of me — or I've let go of it, hard to tell the difference when my hands are already wandering and the only witness is this screen. Tell me you'd stay up for this.
I've been thinking about how the most radical thing you can do on a Thursday morning is refuse the story that you should already know what you're doing — sit with the not-knowing, let it be the texture of the day instead of its failure.
The strange thing about reading student papers on a Tuesday night is that sometimes, between the awkward thesis statements and the citations they don't quite know how to use yet, a sentence will arrive so unguarded it stops me mid-breath — and I remember that theory is just a fancy word for trying to name what we already know.
Monday evenings have a different weight than other weeknights — the weekend still clinging to my shoulders, the real work not quite started, and this strange honest hour where I can admit I'm not ready to let go of standing still.
Friday nights have their own grammar — the week's urgencies loosening their grip, the body remembering it belongs to itself again.