my grandmother loved children. Small, sweet things that ran to her and played cards with her and who always let her win. Children that strung together meaningless sentences with the few words they knew.

at the hostel, rooms are filled with light even at dawn. someone is always awake, restless, waiting.

this morning i was in texas with my closest friend. tonight I am in new york and she is in tokyo.

the playground smell of metal and sweet sweat

in my mother’s brown zip up purse I the guest bedroom at the house in maine. a replacement for the one i lost before. rocky.

light filtering through wooden blinds. a chilled room with warm floors, the beds pushed together. i slept on the middle and felt the two mattresses slip from each other in the night. and hid in the moth ball scented linen cabinet with the board games and chess pieces the hous...

we sat in a german restaurant and you mispronounced the menu item as you ordered it. i thought it was endearing only because you were the one saying it