writing

There is a particular kind of tension in being drawn to someone who never fully gives themselves away. Someone who is thoughtful enough to be felt, careful enough to remain difficult to read, and consistent enough to become familiar in all the ways that matter. It is subtle, but not harmless.

eighty on the open road, she climbed halfway out the window laughing into the black hair a wild flag, one hand outstretched she yelled, “god, i feel alive!” and just like that, i did too the night pressing in, but all i could hear was her swallowing fear, trading it for wind

There is a tenderness in me, but there is also self-respect. I can hold space, hold complexity, hold patience. But I am not built to live indefinitely inside something unfinished while pretending it is enough just because it is meaningful. I want what is real, yes, but I also want what is willing. What shows up. What grows.