1:30 A.M. on the East Coast

The sea-kissed breeze wafts through
my hair, the sand adjusting to my feet
as I stroll briskly through the night
with the love of my life. We turn to
the ocean to gaze upon th shin of the
stars on the waves. We wave back, and 
look at o h moon, waning, half-full,
but full of beauty. The tide is high
as I smile at her, my right hand
interlocked with her left.

The sun rises, shining on my tired eyelids. 
They open gradually, and I groan in exhaustion.
The bed of sand wasn’t as comfortable
as I had thought when I drifted out 
of consciousness hours prior. Not that
it matters, for I had one of the
happiest nights of my life and
I didn’t want it to end anyway. 

1:30 A.M. on the East Coast

Blue Beanies, White Winters

He hangs his head, covered in blue cotton,
low, in order for him to symbolize
how he feels. His black and purple button-down
plaid shirt reveals a white tee. Crystallized

fragments find their way to the earth beneath 
his maroon sneakers. A chilling wind blows
the fragments, a pure white flurry, to he
who walks solitarily. This man knows

the cold, unfeeling eyes cast upon him;
the bitter, brisk breeze is nothing at all
in comparison. He fled on a whim,
hoping to find solace in his downfall. 

Instead, he found himself outside, collapsed,
in the banks of snow on th cold street-sides. 
He remembers the frozen mocha frappe
he used to buy daily, a treat inside

a plastic cup. Nothing is sweet about
his current situation. The bitter,
chilling air numbing him, his body out
in the cold, is a curse for white winters. 

Blue Beanies, White Winters


She’s resisting the overwhelming urge

to stand up and eradicate those who

she deems worthy of her personal purge. 

In this vendetta, she prepares a coup

to usurp the Rome and ignite the fire

within the oeople she tries to protect. 

All around, she sees funeral pyres

for those passed. The wind shifts and she detects

incoming inclement weather. Whether

or not the storm will quickly come to pass

is uncertain. She hates being tethered 

to emotion; she’s hoping she can last

long enough to cast aside all her ties. 

When someone so great wants to barricade

themselves in their own hell until they die,

you know this happiness was a facade. 


I, the Creator

I need your hand to hold onto my heart

because it keeps skipping beats. You are art,

a beautiful creation; it was fate

that brought us together. Staying up late

on the phone, discussing what our future

had in store. The collision of culture

between us culminates to terraform

the foundation of our love. You were born

to be a sweet, genuine heroine;

I was to be a creator wherein

my art fulfills and represents all ideals

I hold. Writing, music, and video feel

right when I push myself to do better. 

I will be a creator forever. 

I, the Creator