words and shit

I keep hearing it at night, that hum under the skin, that cricket-chirp nobody else notices— the sound of love the way the mystics meant it. Not the kind that…

Puerto Rico is more than an island; it is the iridescent pulse of memory and salt and music made flesh. It is where the ocean meets the horizon like an…

The morning started soft—just the way the world should feel when you’re about to do something holy. There was no thunderclap, no sky splitting in two. Just dew on the…

I miss you like the hospital smells like antiseptic and regretlike my hands keep reaching for your ghost in the darkI miss you like I miss the sound of my…