Beauty makes sense to me, has weight for me, only when it falls from grace. It starts to matter when it carries damage. Sorrow allows it to cast a shadow. It becomes three-dimensional. It enters our world.
Adia. Twentysomething. Mulatta. Pagan. Vegan. Little girl at heart.
Maybe I’m a ghost. I reach out and shift the space around you, just slightly, a touch you won’t recall. Like a cool breeze on the back of your neck: you smile, you shudder, but its not enough for you to turn toward.
"If you’re ever cold," I wrote, "there’s warmth inside me. I’m the pocket of an old winter coat."