top of page
  • Writer's picturewhit


the sound of my dad’s guitar

playing his favorite chords

the typing of my mom’s fingers

going through family records

the smell of the ceramics studio

full of the kiln, dust and glaze

the running home to the smell

of pot roast on a Sunday

the touch of the smooth keys

on the piano I hated to play

the cool breeze with your

eyes closed and ocean’s spray

the taste of thick, cheesy grits

that mom made when I was sad

or grandma’s cookies that she

loved to bake for granddad

but what feels the most like home

is the sound of your laugh

the touch of your hand

and the taste of your lips

that make you my man

10 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All


it’s the little things they always say like how you listen more than you ever have before or how you stopped opening my car door like how you squeeze me tighter in our hugs or how you don’t answer me


I cant remember the last photo i took maybe it was a mountain maybe my niece maybe myself maybe you looking away no matter what it was it’s the last thing my lense has seen which means it means everyt


We're here through thick and thin like letting me borrow a bobby pin, or confessions in Denny's at 3 am. Y'all always spoil me with pointless pacts and share my love for artifacts. I never would have


bottom of page