a diary written in golden hour
I write the small hours down before they leave.
Poems, slow mornings, and the things I keep loving.
Come in — the kettle is already on.
the featured poem
The night arrives the way a letter does,unhurried, addressed to no one,and still I open it.
There is a lamp inside my chestthat only burns for absent things —your voice, the sea, the girl I was.
So let the dark keep what it keeps.I will sit here until the window palesand call that patience. Call it love.
slow living
How I learned to let the last hour of the day belong to nobody but me — one wick, one page, one long exhale at a time.
6 min read
rituals
Bergamot steam on cold glass, a book left open from the night before, and the small ceremony of beginning again.
4 min read
wandering
The city put its lights on early that week, and I climbed up to watch the sky decide what colour to be.
8 min read
from the journal
the eleventh of March
I stayed up again. Not out of sadness this time — out of greed for the quiet. The radiator ticked, the street went gold and then went dark, and I wrote three lines I actually liked. Some nights are just for keeping yourself company, and tonight I was good at it.
read the whole entry →“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
Oscar Wilde
reading
Rilke, again. He keeps answering questions I forgot I asked.
listening
Played too quietly, on purpose, just past midnight.
wandering
Brass lamps, no music, the window seat that faces the rain.
burning
Smells like an old library that has kept a secret.
watching
Every frame is a poem I wish I had written first.
Virginia Woolf
Mary Oliver
Maggie Nelson
Louise Erdrich
A quiet note now and then — new poems, slow thoughts, and whatever the garden is doing.
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