I didn’t discover Pablo Neruda in a library. Or in a classroom. Or through some earnest literature syllabus that promised to change my life. I found him while scrolling. Pinterest, of all places. Between aesthetic wallpapers and vaguely motivational quotes, a few lines stopped me cold. They weren’t loud. They didn’t announce themselves. They simply sat there, unapologetic in their softness. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I remember thinking that this man had stolen...

Wow, it’s been a while. This feels stranger than it should. Where did we leave off? Right - achieved a lifelong dream, endured heartbreak...

Hey baby, We never spoke too much about my writing, did we? It's for the best, I suppose. This place began to haunt me. First, I ran out...