when we are busy
existing,
surviving,
drifting through the days,
writing is a way to remember
that we are living.
___________________
prayer (2026)
spring found me
at point reyes
on a quiet morning in april
wind danced
between my fingers
and swayed
with blooming wildflowers
scattered generously
across green hills
bright california poppies
resting below the fog
standing upon a hill
overlooking the sea
the shoreline
stretched
until it met the sky
i drew in a breath
held it in my hands
and let it go
___________________
untitled (2026)
i tried
to reach myself
from a room
i was leaving
the warmth of my hand
left on the door
i turned my head
face forward
heel caught on frame
still turned
the other way
___________________
small moments (2025)
i always look for small moments
like the early shade of morning,
when my little cousins giggled
as they crept up the stairs to scare me
or the way my grandmother held me
at the airport,
between the words “goodbye”
and “be well.”
sitting again in the backseat
of my dad’s old car,
where as a child I traced
the lines of the window
on long drives across the states
small moments
in sunset,
when the sun settles
just above the ocean
and tells us “goodnight,
a new day will come again”
small moments
where things pause,
and the silence feels full
enough for me to remember
the shape of our goodbyes
held in the weight of my head
against your shoulder
___________________
idyllwild, mid-july (2024)
eyes closed, a moment before sunset
the lingering scent of pine and the color green
a memory cradled in the waning sun.
last bits of light
pooled beneath the trees
the day stretched long
with a weary sigh
time, for a while, forgot to hurry
a breeze brushed past my ears
a whisper i couldn’t catch
life hummed
beneath my steps,
and i held in
a sinking breath,
leaving a part of myself behind,
somewhere between the trees and the sky
later, in a memory
held in the air,
i’d still be standing there
___________________
hide and seek with the sun (2024)
i forget, sometimes,
that there is blue behind the grey.
when the rain lingers for days,
and the beaming sun feels more like a memory
than something i once stood beneath,
our eyes adjust to the gloom
and we begin to believe in its heaviness
we look up at the sky for an answer,
and in its silence,
we are weighed by what we carry
but yet the sun is constant,
as it has been all this time
somewhere behind the clouds,
our brightest days are still waiting for us
___________________
one cloudy morning in newport (2024)
the ocean reminds me of time
of the stories that existed long before i did,
and the ones still waiting to unfold when i am gone.
as long as we live,
we are reminded that life is never solitary.
we are inevitably woven into a process
that all things are bound to,
a process that does not pause to explain itself.
and in that,
there is a kind of fairness,
a quiet symmetry
in the coming and going.
buried deep within our lives
is the complexity of a conscious mind
one that aches to make meaning,
that stirs restlessly,
trying to name what we cannot grasp
why we expect more from the world,
when we are owed nothing at all.
seashells split by time,
and sand worn soft
only in these fragments
can we begin to understand
the cyclical nature
of what it means to be human.
and that, too
is a form of grace.
___________________
a cicada's life (2025)
is a quiet endurance,
years of silence pressed into the soil
until it rises briefly
living just a single month in the open air.
each note is a declaration of life,
just as it is an elegy.
yet in its briefest days,
its presence fills the season.
and in its cries,
there lies a truth:
a life is not measured by length,
but by the fullness drawn from brevity,
and the intensity with which it’s lived.
___________________
my 21st spring (2024)
i find myself weaning toward a quiet life.
small choices to live in simplicity and solitude are comforting.
the need for a quiet life comes with the pressing urge
to live an inconspicuous existence.
the human experience is shared, and we are not alone.
i spend my hours
building my life together
and tearing it apart.
with my heartbeat woven tightly into my shoelaces,
i run until i have drowned
in the air i gasp to breathe.
the days have lengthened,
the winter now past.
each year,
quieter than the last.
aching nostalgia,
and the gentle reminder of time passed
in the wrinkles on hands that have raised me.
as i step into my twenty-first spring,
i pray to let go
of the things that weigh on my shoulders.
___________________
5am, an hour before sunrise (2025)
early morning mist rests on the pavement
the fog rolls in quietly,
coiling around tree trunks
pressing its weight into the air,
settling into every corner
i too, quietly sit,
there on the porch
as i watch the lines between the trees blur
and the color of houses dull
soon, my sight is dimmed,
the world softens beneath a film of gray
a heaviness i cannot name
___________________
childhood memoir (2025)
it was the peak of a san bernardino summer, 109 degrees.
heat pressed down like a thick blanket,
not a cloud in the sky.
there was a midday stillness
that made me yawn
i lay flat against the wood paneled floor of our old mobile home,
just beneath the sputtering main vent
hoping to get a steady breeze of lukewarm air.
the fan beside me rattled uselessly,
clicking on the count of four
before it changed directions
a sorry sight with more noise than wind.
still, the floor was cool,
and my dad had handed me a bowl of fresh cut watermelon,
sliced into perfect cubes.
there was comfort in knowing
i had nowhere else to be.
i’d take off on my bike through the neighborhood,
pedaling over pavement still warm from the sun,
past the soft chatter of sprinklers
and into the slow sigh of evening.
it was more than enough
to make me feel like life was something i could love.
___________________
first month of college (2021)
the first thing i do when i wake up,
is open the blinds and crack the window open to let sunlight in.
its so simple but it makes me feel so alive.
and sometimes ill slab on a fat layer of sunscreen just to go outside for 10 minutes
and sit in the grass when the mist dries off.
when the suns not too hot.
when the wind isnt to cold.
sometimes i take my notebook and pen with me,
only to leave with an empty page
because thoughts only come to me before i sleep,
never when i ask them to
i leave my earphones in the room
i sit, to do nothing
to breathe, and that makes me feel alive.
___________________
untitled (2022)
life drapes over me like an aged cashmere sweater,
a sweater worn, familiar and loved.
every season comes
in patterns,
stitching,
visible traces of time.
life breathes into me,
runs across me on a bridge above a small stream,passses through peaking branches,
and cast shapes on the ground below.
___________________
18th summer (2021)
im in love with life
i love to take walks in parks,
i love looking at flowers
and green trees
i appreciate when my dad cuts
apples for me in the morning
even though im not really hungry.
i like
the sound of crickets
chirping at night
i like
the smell of air
i love
to look at sunsets
i dont drink raw americanos
just to taste something
cold and bitter anymore
i like drinking sweet things,
feeling the sun on my back
and giving love
to people i love.
