As I sit here, alone with my thoughts,
the hard bench against my back reminds me of you.
Firm, slightly uncomfortable, yet sturdy and supportive.
You, like the chair, are a place to rest.
When I turned 34, I decided to write a series of short stories. The only catch? Each story had to be 34 words. 34 years, 34 words. No more, no less. These are the fruits.