This year, we’ll celebrate sixteen years together.
Sixteen years.
The word they couldn’t say
Nine Lives
I saw a post online of someone who had created a poem of what they would do if they had nine lives. I’ve seen different variations of it online, so can’t credit the original personal and don’t want to take credit for this as an original idea. However, this is my interpretation of it based on my life.
If I had nine lives…
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Between Streetlights
The road asked for nothing from me except attention. I gave it just enough to stay between the lines and kept the rest for thinking…slow, circular thoughts that didn’t want answers, only room.
The city thinned as I drove, structures loosening into absence. Distance has a way of making things honest. Without witnesses, everything becomes what it is.
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Clue
I learned how to read a room before I learned how to rest.
In my house, love was quiet, but responsibility was loud. I learned early what a pause meant, what a sigh meant, how the air changed when something was wrong. I learned that being useful made me easier to love. That if I stayed alert, stayed needed, stayed one step ahead, maybe nothing bad would happen.
I was the oldest daughter.
That already decided a lot for me.
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Traveling Time Through Music
It was one of those slow, glowing summer nights — the kind where the air is warm but forgiving, and the conversation starts to stretch its legs. I was sitting outside with my girlfriend’s dad and his brother, sipping tequila. Not just one kind, we were passing around a few bottles, comparing notes, the kind of casual ritual that opens up space for real stories to surface.
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Her
She lay beside me, her breath steady and quiet in sleep, and I just watched her for a while. In the hush of that moment, her face, so familiar, so beloved, seemed touched by something almost sacred. There were no lines, no marks of age, nothing dramatic to name. But I saw the difference, the softness that had settled in over the years, the quiet maturity that time brings not through change, but through presence.
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Shapes in the Fog
There was a time when Ava and Nico felt like punctuation marks in each other’s sentences—commas in long-winded thoughts, exclamation points in good news, question marks in quiet wonderings. Every Friday, without needing to confirm, they met at the train station café: a fading relic of the city’s older days, where ceiling fans hummed softly and the walls smelled faintly of burnt espresso and damp paper.
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Near Enough/Last Kindness Interlude
“Near Enough”
It was a bookstore…
of course it was.
Quiet, half-forgotten,
where dust softened the corners
and no one asked questions
louder than a whisper.
You walked in
just as I was turning a page.
I didn’t look up at first.
I knew. Continue reading “Near Enough/Last Kindness Interlude”
Weighted Expectations
The forge was alive with the sounds of hammering and the crackling of the fire. Eamon, a young blacksmith in the village of Eldorath, stood over the anvil, shaping the glowing metal. His father had been the master blacksmith in the village, crafting swords and armor for the knights of the realm, a legend in his own right. When Eamon’s father fell ill, it was clear that the mantle would pass to him.
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One Hour at a Time
She had always prided herself on being in control. As a businesswoman, she had worked tirelessly to build her career, rising through the ranks to a place where she could enjoy the fruits of her labor. She had the house, the car, the vacations, yet somehow none of it felt as fulfilling as it once had.
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