my heart, a weeping cherry tree

Gut sentiment, leave only the bones. Feelings? They’re dead weight—cut them loose, let them sink. There’s no room for velvet hands in a war of steel teeth. The plan is the only god here, carved in salt and sinew, and your heart is just another organ waiting to betray you.

There’s a kind of magic in the world, a pulse thrumming beneath the static—subtle, raw, waiting. It lingers, tepid-soft. You can find it in the sunlight that drags its lips over your skin, in the hush of dusk as it gradates from amaranthine bruise to the deep ache of midnight. It purrs in the spaces between—between the inhale and exhale, between the clink of a spoon against porcelain, between now and what comes next.

But too often, we rush past these moments. We grind our teeth through the weekdays, chasing deadlines, chasing freedom, chasing rescinded rights as fascism digs its talons into the cracks of America’s ribs.

But what if we paused? What if, in the midst of resistance, we also gave ourselves the space to live—to live like poetry?

I’ve been learning how to capture the quiet magic of life—how to romanticize mornings, find beauty in the mundane, and nurture creativity in a world that often demands more. How to turn the ordinary into something worth celebrating.

I wrote a piece on how I'm embracing the stillness and allowing these fleeting moments to become sacred. From the softness of a morning to the act of creating a sanctuary for my soul, I’m learning to slow down and savor what feels fleeting—before it slips away.