The crickets sing their evening tune,
Beneath a glowing, silver moon.
The campfire sparks fly up so high,
To join the stars inside the sky.
We sit around the burning wood,
Exactly as we always should.
A perfect, warm, and fleeting hour,
That blooms exactly like a flower.
Growing up by the ocean, Chloe’s work is deeply tied to the rhythm of the tides. She writes about the roaring sea, endless summer nights, and the bittersweet nature of fleeting coastal romances. Her debut...
The grass is short, the wind is high,Between the ocean and the sky.I stand upon the crumbling verge,And...
The waves crash down upon the sand,A power I don’t understand.The salty spray upon my face,In this wild...