september like
golden afternoons
like autumns on
the tip of your tongue
all honey dripping
and marshmallow tang


summer’s end

there is a thick scent of
nostalgia as the dog days of summer
come to an end.

she gazes
at the world through
honey-tinted glasses and aches

for something more,
to return to the simpleness
of childhood.

perhaps then
she could find
the source of that deep,

deep ache that
only comes around when
autumn winds blow.

dry thunder-sunsets

It’s Friday evening and it smells like thunderstorms. The palm trees creak above our heads, dry leaves rattling like snakes in the desert heat. Even as the sun sinks behind the mountains, the concrete around us gives off so much heat it’s like having a second sun. I close my eyes for a moment. Listen.

Behind the noise of the palm trees are the birds as they settle in for the night. It might be cooler now but the sun is going and they won’t be able to see. I almost feel bad for them. A full day of foraging wasted, grounded due to the mirage-inducing, oven-baked temperature. My toes dip into the pool in front of me. There’s the taste of lime on my lips, the remnants of a paleta I was eating a few moments before.

When I open my eyes again, the sun is just a sliver peeking over the ridge. Clouds have covered half the sky to the east, a heavy purple, pink just outlining the edges. I wait for a clap of thunder somewhere in the distance. I’m disappointed. The rain isn’t coming for us today and I have better things to do than wait.

sunset with clouds coming in | photo credit: the author


many springs have come and gone, but for her, youth is a permanent state of being. flowers never fade beneath her feet. the sun is in her smile. she reminds you of a girl you once knew as a child. come play, she beckons. you follow, feeling the chill of winter fade in her grasp. in her field of eternal spring, you are reborn.

sirens don’t kill; they murder

[the devouring]
blood on her tongue. his still-beating heart, warm in her hands, and love, the sweetest taste, on her lips. a man with glassy eyes and strained breaths, helpless. such a slow devouring, each piece better than the last. fingers licked clean, bloody lips, and a last breath. her crooked smile, his last thought. there is beauty in death when rotten words no longer fall from rotten lips.

[the burial]
her fingers, elegant white bones now claws in his shirt. oh poor soul, better a baptism of blood than a girl’s broken heart. the words of a broken heart with something almost like love. but it vanishes with the body at the bottom of the ocean.

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