Longing
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She gave more than effort; she emptied whole rooms of herself into a dream that eventually became a place she had to leave.
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Even the wind can carry back what memory tried to bury, touching old names, old places, and the ache of what once mattered.
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She no longer wants a love that consumes her—only one that helps her return to herself.
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It may not be love yet, but something keeps tilting her world toward one person with unmistakable gravity.
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Silence becomes its own language in the lingering glances, unfinished goodbyes, and distance that never teaches the heart to wander.
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Some people never fully leave; they become the ache of almost, lingering in songs, coffee cups, and the empty spaces beside us.
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He crossed an ocean while she crossed the distance between fear and sleep, meeting somewhere in the safety of a voice through a screen.
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Some connections are terrible at staying and strangely gifted at finding their way back to the same conversation.
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If timing were somewhere they could meet, perhaps there would be a version of them that never had to keep saying goodbye.
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Home becomes a scent left on borrowed fabric—sawdust, sweat, summer, and the strange peace of breathing someone in after they are gone.
Between Bruises & Blooms 