PALATE VOLUME I
Modesto A. Maidique Campus The Honors College 11200 SW 8th Street, DM 233 Miami, FL 33199 Font used: Tw Cen MT Condensed Copyright ÂŠ 2016 Florida International University Honors College Phone: (305) 348-4100 Fax: (305) 348-2118 Email: firstname.lastname@example.org Website: palate.fiu.edu
Kin Crayon, marker, pen 11 x 17 in
Welcome to the first issue of the FIU Honors College, student-run Palate Magazine. The pages you are about to see feature students with an interdisciplinary mindset and a talent worth sharing. I felt it was my duty to provide a platform for all Florida International University students to showcase their craft in order to spark conversation not only throughout campus, but among all of our communities. The versatility of style and syntax seen in this issue will make you discover the quality of FIU students who are fueled with passion and innovation. I would like to thank every student chosen for this first edition of Palate. It is with your creative thinking that this collaboration came to fruition. Kind regards, María-José Ayuso Palate Editor-in-Chief Honors College
Meet the Team MarĂa-JosĂŠ Ayuso | Editor-in-Chief Nicole Zummar |Business Manager Alejandro Verdecia |Finance Manager Aly Siblesz |Historian Eliana Alba |Marketing Manager
Antonella Bocaranda |Art Editor Anna Seerey |Literary Editor Daniela Molina |Events/Performance Editor Gabrielle Garcia |Copy Editor I Shazarah Rahaman |Copy Editor II Maria Wilson |Creative Director I Rafael Pimentel |Creative Director II Danna Samhan |Social Media Manager
Special Thanks Patrick Foucauld Cover Artist
Lesley A. Northup, Ph. D Dean FIU Honors College
Juan C. Espinosa, Ph.D Associate Dean FIU Honors College
Coordinator of Study Abroad & Arts Programs FIU Honors College
Nanett A. Rojas, M.S. Higher Education
Umer Rahman, M.A.
Coordinator of Student Programs FIU Honors College
Juan C. Lopez
Information Technology Manager FIU Honors College
Table of Contents Patrick Foucauld Clint Phillips
She Comes with Rain | Mikaila Daniel [untitled] | Angela Hogan
1 3 5
[untitled] | Cecilia Herran Clean Slate | Kristen Figarola
Jon | Alexandra Laurent Moonrose | Carina Zatarain
Dare | Valerie Hurtado Cherry | Cristina Melendez
Wrapped in Wanderlust | Natalia PatiĂąo Awaken the Slumber, Adventure the City| Carina Alvarez
Nostalgia | Phalancia Louisy A Rootâ€™s Perspective | Allan Saul Nigri
Wadjda (2013): A Film Review | Hannah Brankin Self Twelve | Yekaterina Lobuzova
Shattered Reflection| Connie Leung [untitled] | Connie Leung
I Am Queen | Jaiye Anais Simone* Lady in Blue | Maria Galvis
In the Land of Sunshine Zombies | Beyssa Buil Ballet and Tea, Tea | Rebecca Adler
Words | Kamila Manzueta Familiar | Sergio Potes
Love | Laura Camafreita Redeemed | Amanda Zamora
Illusion | Vaersa* Op art | Odette Manresa
Tremor | Paola Parreno-Merino Psyche and Eros | Susan La
Construction Management| Environmental Sustainability, Honors College Mediterranean Mixed media (hard body acrylics, oils, aerosol) 20 x 48 in
Patrick Foucauld is a junior double majoring in Construction Management and Environmental
Sustainability. Although he never received formal artistic training, his raw talent paved the way for his debut in Miami Art Baselâ€™s The Allapattah Market in 2015 and later in Continuum, a West Palm Beach-based show that took place in January 2016.
Turtle (above) Acrylic on canvas 36 x 48 in
Marketing and International Business
Blue Boy (right) Acrylic on canvas 26 x 40 in
Environmental Engineering, Honors College [untitled] Canon AE-1 film camera using a 50 mm lens Dimensions unknown
Prologue: She Comes with the Rain Mikaila Daniel
Computer Science, Honors College
hey refused to name the new settlement “New Earth.” Earth was old, yes, but its death wasn’t due to its age. New Earth displaces the true blame. It implies their race was oblivious to the condition of the planet. This was a lie they would never tell themselves again. Their new home was not Earth, and never would be. The refugees took every precaution to ensure humanity’s new home would never be destroyed. The distribution and use of all resources in their home would be heavily regulated. They established a governing body to control everything in this city, and called it “The Republic.”
This machine carefully calculated each event in a person’s life— maintaining the population of humans at 150,000, plus or minus two percent. It intervened when it saw fit, distributing diseases when the population grew too large, decreasing taxes when the population grew too small. A select few were aware of the Republic’s powers, and for many generations these people were in charge of maintaining the machine’s hardware and software. Four hundred and sixty-two years after its birth, the Republic falsely interpreted an update as a threat to its city. To protect itself, it created a problem that could never be detected by it or its inhabitants—much less be solved by one of them. Full story featured on our website: palate.fiu.edu
Business Marketing, Honors College Clean Slate Acrylic on canvas 8 x 8 in
[untitled] Cecilia Herran
Journalism, Honors College There was once a girl, Who dreamed hopeful dreams, Saw the world as her ocean, With the moon and the stars as her peace. There was once a girl, Who believed herself to be free, Discovering her own terrain, Confidence only found in greenest of green. There once was a girl, Who had everything, Who unknowingly had every spec of the beach, From the sand, to the waves, To the last glimpse of the sea. There once was a girl, Who suddenly lost everything, Not knowing what everything truly meant, Left to discover the truth about what lies in mysteryâ€™s depths.
There once was a girl, Who no longer looked like a girl, Only a withered cracked shell, From lifeâ€™s unapologetic and unfortunate spells. There once was a girl, Who really, truly, horrifically broke at her seams, Finding herself to be buried With the fears of what tomorrows will bring. There once was a girl, Who found she did not loose everything, That the past, will always be, And that the meaning of now was filled with possibility. There once was a girl, Like many other girls, Really, like all girls, Who learned she had a choice. There once was a girl, A girl who chose to endure, To push, to break, to keep going, And dream her beautiful hopeful dreams. 8
Alexandra Laurent Psychology
Kind stranger I didn’t see you come my way Now that you are here Stay So I can tell you the matters of my heart And I can listen to the vowels from your mouth Sound so blissfully soulful So full of myself I hesitate Now that you are here Stay Your hand softer than mine Your lips fit in mine So nicely I forget to open my eyes I sense your frustration You cover it up with questions and questions Although I can’t open up as easily as you may wish while you are with me Stranger, Now that you are here won’t you Stay With me and watch me as I cower Under your endless light I see it and I worry I’m a little bit dim A little too dull Like a brand new doll Are you just a night Am I I apologize if I get in your way Step on something and break it I just wait and wait and wait But you are worth it No more I “thinks” But I truly feel I know what I want For you to Not go away.
Carina Zatarain English, Honors College Moonrose Acrylic on canvas 16 x 20 in
Valerie Hurtado Psychology, Honors College
When I feel smothered and swollen with this
sublime euphoric bliss, when it fills up my lungs and it seeps through my eyes. And I no longer know of any reason or rhyme than this, that, or another poem or song. And the pitter patter of all the notes and verses refresh and moisten that source of logic and I find no other recourse. Then all the words whispered by the birds of this and every other realm fill the mind with a most magnificent rhapsody, conglomerating all together minced and mingled into one. When all the voices around us wish to speak but I cannot summon the will nor manifest any reason to listen. And at last in your eyes I know this to be certain. Then colors of all hues and sources rush in a flash flight to meet my cheek. And the very heat in my chest burns like a furnace, then sinks to the pit of my stomach as the vapors of warm ether commingled with mirth slowly rise to loosen the knot in my throat. 11
Finally without any exculpating nonsense the electricity that would often shudder down my spine, make my legs quake then shoot right back up and make my hands shake ricochet about incessantly, with no object but to tickle and tease. Again my lips tremble at the thought of the thunderous utterance in its eminent roll closer and closer. Neurons all in fractions of a millisecond fire then draw... to a singular conclusion the one, the only meaning found, or should I say left in thought after meticulous calculations, indecisions, and revisions absorbing all else. As that lyrical conglomeration in my lungs, a benevolent tyrant of terrifying and awesome proportion bellows and howls awaiting its liberation, in each breath a multiplicity of the single word and notion. With the sweetest ease in the most benign state I indulge in the prisoner’s escape. And I dare transmit this delicious madness... It’s called love. I know of no other name for this sublime creature of mine. Slowly this sweet affliction ever pulsating through my heart makes its presence known to all, delicately tracing the folds of my vocal chords. And then I’d contemplate what I’ve done and say it again and again...for if it’s you that I’d love, I’d confess it and profess it emphatically still more till the end of all days. Till lips go numb and words lose taste.
Cristina Melendez Digital Media, Honors College Cherry Watercolor 16 x 22 in
Psychology, Honors College Awaken the Slumber, Adventure the City Nikon camera 5 x 7 in
Wrapped in Wanderlust Natalia Patiño Communication Arts
We traveled all the world, We saw so many things, We wanted to know more, Of what lived in our dreams.
We went abroad, And cried Bon Voyage! Worries left in the dust, Wrapped in wanderlust.
We sailed the angry seas, We fought off pirate beings, We wanted to explore The earth by many means.
Journeying to and fro, Like conquistadores from long ago, Painting out our odyssey Living out our destiny.
Ridges, paths, mountain ways, Volcanoes, tunnels, ocean waves, Scintillating Moving, not waiting.
Ridges, paths, mountain ways, Volcanoes, tunnels, ocean waves Scintillating Moving, not waiting.
We went abroad, And Cried Bon Voyage! Worries left in the dust, Wrapped in wanderlust.
We went abroad And Cried Bon Voyage! Worries left in the dust, Wrapped in wanderlust.
We met all kinds of people, The poorer the happier they were, Too many adventures to recall, The experience is all they’re worth.
And when the night was fallen, We’d gaze up at the stars, Thinking back to when it all started, Before we made This world Ours.
Ridges, paths, mountain ways Volcanoes, tunnels, ocean waves Scintillating Moving, not waiting.
Nostalgia Phalancia Louisy English Literature
I often wish some things could last forever. When I say forever, I don’t mean the meaningless ‘I love you’ type phrases And the next week we’ re broken up wishing each other were dead type cases. When I say forever, I don’t mean enduring fourteen months of emotional, mental, and physical attachment Only to realize our friendship would soon face heartbreaking detachment. I often wish some things could last forever. When I say forever, I mean staying home and humming the title music to a song of ice and fire. 8,760 hours times infinity. And allowing you to shower, feed, and deflower me – our holy trinity. When I say forever, I mean Having rendezvous in the car at LAX as the stars illuminate the Thursday night sky. And watching A320s take off and land, while discussing how life is scarily passing us by. I often wish these things could last forever. But I know they won’t, and in the end All I have are the memories that I secretly treasure. 15
Allan Saul Nigri Sustainability, Honors College A Rootâ€™s Perspective Photograph taken with iPhone 2.5 x 2 in (scaled down)
Yekaterina Lobuzova Fine Arts, Honors College Self Twelve Colored Pencil 17 x 22 in 17
Wadjda (2013): A Film Review Hannah Brankin
Political Science, Honors College
he film Wadjda, directed by Haifaa al-Mansour, is a rarity: it is one of the few films shot in Saudi Arabia. It is thought-provoking, entertaining, and simultaneously sobering and uplifting. Wadjda is a ten-year-old girl who lives with her mother in Saudi Arabia and clashes with the religious expectations placed upon her. It is fascinating to see the stark contrast of cultures between the West and Saudi Arabia, bringing to life what is discussed in the media. Before proceeding, I offer caution to the reader that this review contains spoilers of the film. Wadjda’s deepest desire is to purchase her own bicycle, while her mother’s deepest yearning is to be the apple of her husband’s eye. Wadjda sets about her goal by making bracelets at home and selling them at school to earn money for her bicycle, but this is soon halted when she is caught by the headmistress, Ms. Hussa. The perceived perspective of Ms. Hussa is that she is trapped inside of a world she despises. With her comment to Wadjda, “I used to be like you when I was younger,” it reveals a glimpse into her own prison: a mind stubbornly resigned to the thought, “If I cannot be free and happy, I will ensure no one else is,” which she ruthlessly enforces upon the school girls. Wadjda’s mother, however, is willing and subservient in her world, and her pursuit is to remain her husband’s sole wife.
Her husband’s mother seems to be searching and preparing for a second wife, while Wadjda’s mother feverishly fights to prevent it. It is interesting to see that her husband, Wadjda’s father, is not present in the home for days or even weeks at a time, intermittently popping in to stay for a few days or even hours, and then leaving. Although he undoubtedly loves his wife, the pressure of their culture is overwhelming, and his wife’s inability to have more children, especially a son, is the problem and reason for his mother to seek a second wife. We are offered an intimate look into Wadjda’s mother’s heart when she tells Wadjda, “He would never burn my heart by taking a second wife.” Her pain seeps through the screen, where her only value in this world has been reduced to whether or not she can produce a son. A son is their fixation, not a daughter like Wadjda, who attempts to write her name on their wall in the family tree (where daughters are not recorded as offspring), only to discover it is removed the next day. Throughout the film we see Wadjda’s mother struggle to survive amidst unequal rights, such as the right to drive. Thus, she relies on a foreign driver for transportation funded by her husband. 18
With the limitations placed upon her, she soon loses her driver due to tardiness, resulting in being trapped at home for a while, until Wadjda’s childhood friend secures the driver again. Wadjda strives with determination to buy her bicycle by entering into her school’s Koran recitation competition. As she studies, her mother’s continual denial of Wadjda’s right to own a bicycle is heavily placed upon her. Wadjda’s mother chides, “You won’t have children if you ride a bike, poignantly revealing her own insecurity.” Wadjda remains steadfast, and brokers a deal with her neighborhood friend to give her riding lessons in exchange for access to her roof, where he needs to hang lights for his uncle’s upcoming election, in which women, of course, are not allowed to participate or vote. The day of the competition arrives, and Wadjda wins! With the prize money just inches from her fingertips, she tells Ms. Hussa she plans to buy a bicycle with her reward, only to be left with bitter disappointment when Ms. Hussa donates the prize money to Palestine instead. Heartbroken, Wadjda returns home to an empty house, with her mother missing for hours. When she awakens from a nap, she finds her mother on their rooftop watching a wedding celebration from afar.
Her mother tells her it is the wedding of her father, who ultimately took a second wife. As Wadjda and her mother are morally defeated, their despair resonates with the viewer; a mother and daughter fighting against their cultural manacles, deflated and hopeless. What deeper yearning does a woman have than loyalty and love from her husband? What deeper desire does a little girl have than the freedom to ride a bicycle? Slowly, Wadjda’s mother crosses the roof to present the bicycle that she bought for Wadjda earlier that day, using the money she had intended to spend on a dress for her relative’s wedding. With her husband now marrying another, her heart is shattered, and this is her attempt to offer her daughter the happiness that she does not have. A parent’s heart is always hopeful for a better life for her children than she had, and this was the first step in securing that hope. This film brilliantly tied together several topics currently discussed among observers or analysts of Saudi Arabia. The political and social pressures in the Kingdom are illuminated with the film’s portrayal of women’s struggle for the right to vote and drive, and to avoid polygamy. With Wadjda’s laughing face lighting up the screen as she finally races around on her shiny new bicycle, the film concludes on an uplifting note, despite the underlying despair.
Connie Leung Electrical Engineering, Honors College Watercolor and white ink 9 x 12 in
Tonight the girl crying in my mirror Shows her face once more with tears streaming down. Day by day all the worries draw nearer. Infinite sorrows I fear I may drown. “Things will be alright,” I cannot assure. Pathetic thoughts drag on the endless night. Pangs of pain as I watch the girl endure. Continuing like this will be her blight. She seeps deeper into the Dark Lord’s realm. I desperately try to pull her out, Refusing to let despair overwhelm. It hurts but it cannot be lived without. Happiness can be strengthened through sorrow. What will the mirror show me tomorrow? 20
Artist JRU (left) and Malcolm Cardona-Spence (right) from the collective PRO NOW Credits: Gabe Ballester
Graduating senior in Finance and In-
ternational Business, Malcolm Cardona-Spence, has lived vicariously through the music of hip-hop since his early childhood and that is where his biggest artistic inspirations stem from. Music featured on our website: palate.fiu.edu
Malcolm Cardona-Spence at a record store in his hometown Hollywood, FL Credits: Jenelle Smith
Taken at III Points 2015, Miami music festival Credits: Carlo Cavaluzzi
I AM A QUEEN! I am a queen. I secure my crown and inherit my throne through a powerful legacy.
I am a queen! “Phenomenal,” like Maya Angelou, “Still I Rise” ready and capable to conquer life’s daily obstacles. I am unstoppable! My perseverant attitude and stubborn will help me to endure the worst; I strut with grace and poise, Even when my world is unstable, I am cool, calm, collected; Ask First Lady, Michelle Obama, a queen doesn’t fold under pressure.
I am connected to a vibrantly rich history; A spiritual lineage consisting of soulful sisters like: Cleopatra, Sojourner Truth, Ida B. Wells-Barnett, and other incredible women, Who asserted their majesty and ascended to royalty By virtue of their integrity.
I am what great queens are made of: Sisterly like Audre Lorde and loving like bell hooks I believe in the power of a sisterhood communion, In the strength of a bond built by great women united; Creating, inspiring; contributing significantly to the world; Compassionate forces to be reckoned with; respected.
I belong to a sacred ancestry, Not blood bound but psychically. You see, when I was born I inhaled the same air breathed by the queens before me. Their presence now inhabits my soul, moving my spirit, Shaping the essence of my very being.
Like Angela Davis or the honorable Betty Shabazz I am political, radical And at times damn controversial! I shy away from nothing and no one. Unafraid to speak up and fight for what I believe in Because a queen fights on principle and doesn’t dare hold her tongue.
Jaiye Anais Simone Sociology
My voice! My voice is a passionate harmony of Billie Holiday, Celia Cruz and Nina Simone; A contemporary echo of the beautiful Lena Horne, I embody her sensual energy within my vocal chords. A deep, profound song remains stuck unsung in my larynxReminiscent of the old Negro spiritualsAnd when I flow The soulfulness of the blues is present within my tone. So, you should listen carefully when I have something to say My voice is an instrument for uplift. And I deserve to be heard. So I speak loud and clear, Hoping to dignify the proud voices of the past residing inside and through me. My speech is one of eloquence spoken with the proud esteem of being a queen.
I am what great queens are made of: I emulate those noblewomen already mentioned But just like them I am an original Distinctive in my uniqueness I ambitiously enhance my greatness Hoping I rise to rest on my own personal pedestal of significance From which others may one day acquire inspiration. Until then I’m content where I am in my progression. Daily I grow to be better but my title never lessens, Cause as a queen there is truth and beauty in my imperfections.
My power is divine, ordained by my inner goddess, I am in control of my destiny. Positive energy propels me to strive for the best, And because I am blessed I know great things are in store for me. I have to succeed because I AM A QUEEN!
Biology, Honors College Lady in Blue Gouache, oil pastels, gel pens 12 x 12 in
In the Land of Sunshine Zombies Beyssa Buil
Religious Studies, Honors College
In this land of sunshine And Zombies everywhere Oâ€™ Miyami Cities underwater We shall be As skyscrapers race in the sky With gray cotton candy Swampthing You make my heart, sing You make afros, in The humid mornings Make America great again You say I say, first we plant flowers Erase the fences Melt down our ironed hearts Dance in the streets with yarn Flint in the water Bad blood Canâ€™t do ponytails anymore Who will turn it into wine now? Sleeping forever more 25
Ballet and Tea (below) Scratch Art 8 x10 in
Tea (right) Scratch art 4 x 6 in
Nursing, Honors College
Words Kamila Manzueta
International Relations| Political Science, Honors College
Pages stained Pages burned Letters unwritten Letters returned Words unspoken Words untold Love unrequited Love uncontrolled Ink wasted Ink smudged Lips unsavored Lips untouched Blood tasted Blood drawn Soul shattered Soul gone Barrier erected Barrier crossed Body unprotected Body lost
Sergio Potes Psychology, Honors College Familiar Acrylic 24 x 36 in
Mind mesmerized Mind consumed Heart paralyzed Heart doomed Pain anticipated Pain received Promises captivated Promises deceived Tears initiated Tears unleashed Sorrow accumulated Sorrow released Kisses tender Kisses prolonged Life splendor Life wronged Control destroyed Control surrendered Strength restored Strength rendered Bane addiction Bane amplified Existence fruition Existence revitalized Darkness extinguished Darkness craved Light distinguished Light saved
All these pages and letters Iâ€™ve written; These words of love are yours. Your lips evoke emotions I write out with ink My blood rushes and you consume my soul I constructed a barrier to protect my body But you encaptured my mind and heart You came with pain and promises But took the tears and sorrow away Your kisses of life were my salvation In losing my control with you, I found my strength again You are the bane of my existence You are the darkness to my light But in reality you are my saving grace disguised You are my guardian, protector, keeper; my most unexpected surprise You saw what no one else could fathom You held me until I found the courage to be strong You are the reason I can smile and live for the moment You are the inspiration for my every song
Lost in Translation Acrylic 18 x 24 in
Withered House India ink on paper 29 x 24 in
Fine Arts major Susan La, thrives off of spontaneity
and the unknown when working on her art.
Fine Arts, Honors College
Amanda Zamora Nursing, Honors College Redeemed Digital using the program Clip Studio Paint 11 x 8.5 in
Laura Camafreita Psychology, Honors College
This diagnosis has been eating away my body, The soul its prey, consuming its innocence Pondering fantasies of bliss while fighting thoughts of treachery My body, trembling inside a prison, I awaken This dual personality has exceeded insanity On moment the illness shows me life at the most exuberant mania, I’m flying. Every piece of Earth is shining with hope, and I am part of the greater symphony The sickness goes through my body in a powerful flow of glee, I’m flying Other times the despair is unbearable I feel my body crumbling, I’m falling The darkness, heavy, surrounds me no; I do not trust this Earth A depression, so intense, every part of the story leads to an unavoidable ending. The questioning causes a state of tears that caresses my body in reality, I’m falling This sickness has a price, beating my body but regenerating my soul. Chronic; the sensation lives sheltered, finding a home with me If the pain is worth this shining light and ridiculous jubilee Then I will suffer the truth and run from a torturous denial.
Odette Manresa Psychology, Honors College Op art Black ink on a 9mm point nib 12 x 18 in
Illusion Vaersa Illusion A word that can shatter your world when you realize that your life is simply that Illusion A mirror that reflects on that which you believe to be true Illusion The words so cleverly crafted into an image that gives hope to the weary Illusion The happiness that cleverly masks the pain and displays a smile that is genuine enough Because that was all that we were An illusion We were the promises always meant to be broken We were the rules never meant to be bent We were the characters who had to follow their role and not enhance them We were the dreamers who never attained that which should have been theirs Because we were an illusion, blindly believing in the vision that was simply an empty mirage But now the mirror is shattered The photograph ripped The vision a depiction of the truth we simply ignored That everything was far beyond perfect That time did not stop when we felt it did That life was never going to be merciful to us That perhaps we really were breaking each other’s hearts But our illusion was the only thing that kept me afloat It was the only peace i could find in the storm surrounding me It was bliss in its purest form It was home, you were home And perhaps the illusion is simply a vision of what’s to come Maybe we foreshadowed the events that are yet to happen Perhaps we simply tried to speed up time itself For we craved what we couldn’t have, longed for something forbidden
We dared to challenge fate altogether But what was mere fate when we were consumed with constant desire Carnally, passionately, the rest of the world would seize to exist We were completely and willingly blinded Because that was our kind of love Blind Until life came and glued our eyes open so that we could not even blink It stripped away the shelter that we so carefully constructed It tore down the walls that made the cruelties of life disappear It wrenched us apart from each otherâ€™s desperate embrace Because life was not fair to us It was never going to allow our illusion to become something more concrete It was never going to let our fantasies become alive in the flesh It gave us false hope, like a scrap of meat left for the starving dogs But we took it, and I still cling to that sole strip of hope Because I want our dreams to become reality I want what we might have had to become what we will have I want this pain to be the kind that makes us grow further together I want you, for you to be with me The mirror is shattered now, the bits of glass the only residue of what was once there The walls are stained with blood and tears, the aftermath of breaking apart without anyone to care But those shards can be recreated, that mirror can be replaced For through all the pain, sadness, and confusion, You still remain my perfect Illusion
Paola Parreno-Merino Communication Arts, Honors College You don’t like it when you snore. You think it’s embarrassing, You think it’s loud, You think it’s terrible. But me? I love it when you snore.
Fine Arts, Honors College Psyche and Eros Paper 5 x 5 in
The soft tremor of your chest. Your breath announcing its arrival, It’s departure. It’s my lullaby to a peaceful sleep. And even miles away, Alone in my bed, With your snoring through the line I imagine us, in 5, 10, 20 years: Your snore ever-present in the air around us, Your chest rising and falling with a magnificent rumble, And me, buried within the earthquake of your being, loving every moment of it, Of you, Of us. In the morning, you’ll open those brown eyes, And I’ll smile at your blush when you realize you’ve been snoring. Because you really don’t understand that I love every single part of you. But for now, you’ll sleep And I’ll hum along to the song of your slumber. Dreaming of you, forever.