a carefully curated life
. A crisp crescent moon. 20 degrees Fahrenheit. Spilt coffee grounds on the floor.
. It’s not like I hadn’t resisted this for weeks. But giving in brought the sweetest sleep.
. Now I can’t stop thinking about potato gnocchi with pork ragu and I wonder how long before the days turn too warm, when I might find a grey afternoon to sip some wine and roll out the dumplings.
. Wiosna. The Polish word for spring.
. I’ll be static cling and she’ll be a ciabatta sandwich. Yes, there was a bun pun, I think.
. Dusk smells like crushed grass and dew and something I cannot name but wish I could and I want to linger here awhile.
. Her 7 things.
. I try not to think about how I could have burned the apartment down.
. … lambent light…