
A gentle breeze carries wisps of hair away from my face. Leaning into it, I inhale the nostalgia of smokehouse aromas. All those winters when
I didn’t realize that I was lactose intolerant till my mid-twenties. I knew I didn’t like milk all my life, but thought is was a
There’s a conveyor belt–slow moving. And You, you have your feet glued to it, letting it carry you–never walking yourself. In between–you and I; space
Pop, pop, pop The kernels push the lid aside, Pop, pop, popping Bursting to the top, like greedy animals, they push each other out of