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the white table

The days are not long. The nights are short. Guitars are hiding in cases, with scraps of paper tucked inside. The pen is full. There is a fresh notebook, with creamy pages. The little white desk is in the middle of the living room, a cascade of receipts and laundry perched on it.

I clean it off, have lunch as it stares back at me. This focal point, this fulcrum where my thoughts become real, this cheap folding table from Ikea. It is familiar, and patient.

grace

A peaceful song

Cheeseburgers on a Sunday night

what happens next

God moves on the water

the street of flowers

the rose seller's screams

blood and roses (this is how the world was built)

how to treat a man

she draws me

white

proof and blankets

prelude to an early winter

a simple act (candy)

answers

smoke

best personal blogs
best personal blogs