In my palm
a small rectangle hums,
a quiet engine of light
that knows my fingerprints
better than my dreams.

It wakes before I do,
breathing blue dawn into my eyes,
offering headlines like weather reports
for the inside of my chest.
Wars, weddings, jokes, goodbyes—
all resized to fit my thumb.

This little mirror
does not show my face,
yet it remembers every angle of me:
the pauses before I reply,
the hours I pretend are minutes,
the names I circle and never call.

It is a door
that opens everywhere
but rarely outward.
Through it I travel
from kitchen to continent,
from silence to noise,
without moving my feet
or my fear.

In its glow
loneliness learns new tricks.
I can be surrounded by voices
and still feel like an unread message,
seen at 9:42,
answered never.

My mother’s laugh lives in here,
compressed into sound waves,
released when I miss her.
An old friend’s face freezes mid-smile,
time buffering between us,
as if memory itself needs better signal.

This mobile
is a pocket-sized universe,
where gods are algorithms
and prayers are search queries.
I ask it what I am feeling,
and it suggests songs,
as if sorrow were a genre
and joy a playlist.

At night,
it refuses to sleep.
It pulses softly on the table,
a mechanical heart,
reminding me that somewhere
someone else is awake,
scrolling through the same dark,
hoping for the same spark.

I have loved through this screen,
fought through it,
ended things with careful punctuation.
A single tap
can break a silence
or create one that lasts for years.

Sometimes I want to throw it
into a river of grass and wind,
let it forget my name,
let my hands remember
what emptiness feels like.
But even that desire
I confess into its notes app.

Still,
when the world shakes
and distance grows teeth,
this small glowing stone
becomes a bridge.
A voice crosses oceans,
arrives warm,
says, “Are you okay?”
and means it.

So I carry it—
this weight of connection,
this blessing that distracts,
this leash that links me
to everything and nothing.
A mobile is not just a phone,
it is a question we keep asking:
How close can we be
without truly touching?

fuss fuel

Do you mean “fossil fuel” (like coal, oil, and natural gas), or are you asking for something creative—such as a poem or short piece based on the phrase “fuss fuel”?

Tell me what you’d like:

• an explanation
• a poem
• a short paragraph / essay
• or something else entirely

the fuel of life

The Fuel of Life

The fuel of life
is not hidden in barrels
beneath ancient stone,
nor refined by fire and steel.
It burns without smoke,
moves without engines,
and leaves no ash behind.

It begins quietly—
a breath taken without thinking,
a heart insisting on its rhythm
even while the mind hesitates.
Before purpose has a name,
before ambition sharpens its teeth,
life is already spending itself
to keep going.

Love is one form of this fuel.
Not the loud kind that announces itself,
but the steady warmth—
the hand that stays,
the voice that returns,
the patience that forgives
without applause.
Love powers endurance
long after strength has quit.

Hope is another.
A reckless substance,
thin but explosive.
It survives in cracks,
feeds on almost nothing,
and still convinces the future
to show up.
Even broken,
hope leaks light.

Curiosity keeps the engine turning.
The child’s why,
the artist’s what if,
the tired soul’s maybe tomorrow.
It pulls us forward
when the road makes no promises,
when answers refuse to appear.

Pain, too, becomes fuel—
not because it is kind,
but because it teaches motion.
From loss, we learn depth.
From failure, direction.
What wounds us
also proves that we are alive
and capable of change.

Time feeds on us
as much as we feed on it.
Each moment consumed
becomes memory,
becomes meaning,
becomes the quiet fire
that shapes who we are
when no one is watching.

The fuel of life
is the will to continue
without certainty.
To rise again
without guarantees.
To choose connection
in a world fluent in distance.

It is fragile.
It must be renewed daily
through kindness, rest, laughter, truth.
Neglected, it dims.
Nurtured, it carries us
far beyond what we thought possible.

And when the flame finally rests,
what remains is not emptiness,
but warmth left behind—
in people changed,
in love given,
in moments that learned
how to last.

a pepper and salt

Salt and Pepper

Salt is the memory of oceans,
quiet, ancient, patient.
It settles first,
white as forgiveness,
teaching food how to remember itself.

Pepper is the spark—
dark, sudden, unapologetic.
It wakes the tongue,
makes the ordinary flinch,
laugh,
pay attention.

Alone, salt can be lonely,
too honest, too bare.
Alone, pepper can be loud,
all heat, no home.
Together,
they argue gently on the plate
and call it balance.

Salt says, stay,
pepper says, change.
Salt keeps the past alive,
pepper dares the future to arrive.
Between them,
a meal becomes a story.

Like people,
they work best when shared—
one grounding,
one daring,
both necessary
to make life taste
like something worth savoring.

ocean flews

Ocean Flews

Ocean flews—
the loose blue lips of the world,
where water exhales its secrets
and the horizon listens.

They move without hurry,
folds of salt and shadow,
speaking a language older than maps,
older than fear.

In those flews,
storms are born as whispers,
dreams dissolve into foam,
and forgotten names
are rocked back into sound.

Waves press forward,
then retreat—
not weakness,
but breath.
Not surrender,
but knowing when to return.

The ocean flews remember everything:
ships that trusted too much,
hands that reached and let go,
moons that pulled too hard
on tender tides.

Yet still they open,
again and again,
welcoming light,
welcoming loss,
welcoming the endless attempt
of land to understand water.

If you listen closely,
standing where sand meets motion,
you can hear it—
the sea practicing speech,
saying come,
saying leave,
saying nothing at all
and meaning it deeply.