m u n j u

thirteen species so far, none alike. the gingko came first — found pressed inside a library copy of a 1974 anthology, browned at the edges, still smelling faintly of summer.

the room is cool and the radio is on. i am rearranging charms on a velvet square. nothing important, only the slow shape of an afternoon spent indoors with the rain pretending to be polite.

the letter j when i write it quickly. a small brass charm on a chain that catches the desk lamp. the porchlight outside the window when the wind moves the alder branch. the second m in monogram when i stare at it too long.

a single warm tone in a long monochrome sentence. it is the heart, the blush, the place where the page admits it has feelings. everything else can stay carved in stone — but the dot must remain warm.

most sites are paper. this one is supposed to feel like a small private object. i wanted you to feel the weight of it in your hand the moment you opened the page — like a hinge, a clasp, a tiny click.