Poetry and peripheral writing that lives at the edge of the work. Personal, observational, and unfinished by design. This section exists without explaining itself.
The Margin
The year loosens like a knot warmed by breath— not broken, not forgiven, just finished with. It releases me quietly, the way night softens a room without announcing itself. No ceremony. Just the easing of what no longer needs to be held. I don’t chase it to the door.
The Margin
Ink on skin-thin paper. The blade warm from my hand. Too much and it bruises. Too little and nothing stays. The first pull stutters — grain catching, edge biting back. The room smells faintly metallic. Rubber. Oil. Breath held too long. I press again. Harder this time. The line blooms, then
The Margin
The sea loosens its grip and the shore opens wide, a sheet of silver, breathing. Clouds gather and drift apart, blue rinsed thin with light, weather learning how to wait. They cut across the quiet, dark commas in a long sentence of water, their reflections briefly believing themselves. Waves arrive
The Margin
I am not built from wreckage. I am built from noticing. From the way dusk leans before it leaves. From jokes that land sideways. From staying long enough to finish my drink and leaving before I’m asked. I keep warmth like contraband— quietly, close to the body. I don’
The Margin
Morning comes without asking what survived the night. Not light— not yet— just the loosening of dark along the edges of things that held anyway. The sky thins. Streetlamps hesitate. Somewhere, a bird tests the hour with one sharp note and decides to wait. I stand where I am and
The Margin
You were sunlight before you ever spoke, a spark I caught and carried home — I was still a child myself, learning the shape of love through you. We grew together, you and I — two wild hearts finding rhythm, babies raising each other on borrowed courage and small joys. Your first
The Margin
She is the hush between pages, the pause before thought begins — a sliver of silver dusk stretched across my windowsill. Her paws make no sound, yet the air changes when she moves. She walks like smoke with intention, as if gravity has learned her name. I call her goddess, though
The Margin
There’s a sound the air makes when it stops needing to hold its breath. It’s softer than forgiveness, heavier than silence— a kind of peace that doesn’t ask to be earned. I find it between half-unpacked boxes, in the hum of the heater, in the way my
The Margin
Some chapters end in fire, others in the slow unraveling of thread—pull one loose and watch the careful weaving come undone in your hands. Trust returns like winter light: slant and cautious, illuminating the framework beneath—vertebrae that held even when the foundation cracked and shifted. There’s a