Seedless Apples

This isn't a story. It's a drawer of folded notes, a wall painted over many times, a phone call never made. Each poem is just a still-from when the light hit a little strange or the silence lasted a while longer. Nothing here asks to be held for long, but if something lingers, let it. These pages are about the small things-suitcases half-packed, lame jokes that stick, cities left behind, people fading out, streets that were once familiar. The poems don't chase meaning-they just notice. Some are quiet. Some bite. Some don't know what they're trying to say until it's already said. They're pieces from a mind that wanders. And if something here feels familiar, that's probably not an accident.