Author: Ann Selene

You distract me —not suddenly,but the way heat gathers,the way a room slowly fills with scentuntil breathing itself becomes deliberate. How can one presenceso thoroughly inhabit another,filling every corridor of thought,until the wanting to writefeels like pressure —a swelling that insistson release? And when the ink finally comes,it does not

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I remember when my children were very small, preschool age, when every milestone felt like a ribboned gift waiting to be unwrapped. I delighted in each “first,” each new pencil held too tightly, each earnest recitation of letters and numbers. Preschool was a gentle joy. And then we arrived at

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There is a particular sadness that does not come from loss. Loss has a clarity to it. Something was present, and then it was gone. But there is another kind of melancholy, quieter and more difficult to name, that comes from standing near warmth and realizing it was never meant

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