We used to talk about many things, but since a few weeks ago our conversations have dwindled to asking each other about our respective love lives and doling out relationship advice, usually on my part. Not that I would know; I have never been in an official relationship, although I’ve been in several sort-of ones. But I guess that’s the consultant coming out in me. You’ve always told me to follow my dreams, whatever those are. When people ask me about what I want to do in the future, my official answer is still “I don’t know”, as it has been for years. The truth is, I do know: I want to compose musicals. E

Walk by the Lake by Clevina, literature

Literature

Walk by the Lake

I remember when we walked by the lake, walked by the lake, watched the wind ripple the water as you climbed on the rocks and I stayed on the shore. I still remember our conversation that for you, was carried off by the wind. Now I remember when I walk by the lake, walk by the lake, watch the sailboats in the water knowing you are on one of those boats while I watch from the shore. I remember when you walked next to me and I wonder which is your boat being carried off by the wind.

Another Weekend by Clevina, literature

Carbon by Clevina, literature

Night, Coffee, Reflections by Clevina, literature

Wisps by Clevina, literature

Literature

Wisps

How do you capture the air of a certain night with that certain scent and that certain chirping of what may be crickets, How do you capture the essence of what you are breathing that certain scent that certain sound; the breeze that brushes against your arm like a sheet of ice, How do you grasp the air of popsicles in the summer heat of children playing tag in the streets; it rushes past my face the way memories rush past me, and I see that There are no children in the streets, only me next to the window, the wind slipping past me no matter how hard I try to grasp it.

Moment I by Clevina, literature

Listening by Clevina, literature

The Price of Dying by Clevina, literature

Literature

The Price of Dying

“I want to be interred after I die,” Mr. Peters said. He made that clear to his family while he was still lucid, before old age and illness rendered him unintelligible. Seventy wasn’t that old, but he recognized the symptoms that were creeping up on his ailing body – the aches, the fatigue, the feeling of helplessness and despair. Despite his daughter’s attempts to assuage his concerns, he sensed his own mortality. The worst part about dying, Mr. Peters thought, was what happened afterwards. Even since he was a small boy, he had been afraid of fire. He could never forget the scorching heat of the orange fla

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