I step out onto the covered sidewalk

and turn my gaze towards you,

but I’m stopped mid-stride.

There’s snow falling from the

soft, rosy-pink sky—

I don’t know why I’m shocked.

I start walking again, and

even though there’s a roof above my head

I still feel snowflakes and cold air

brush my face with this unbelievably cruel gentleness.

I’m bowing my head now, in submission,

and the snow feels colder and colder,

like it’s been following me, waiting to

snuff out my flame for years.

And as I look down I peer back,

back on that night we walked together,

and I walked tall—

O how you cast me down.

I stop at the street crossing

and I step out from under the roof.

I look skyward. The snow

touches my skin, and I let out

a ragged breath—the

kind that crawls on its belly, and drags itself

out of your throat.

Your snowflakes still land, still melt on my face

but as I walk forward, forward towards

you and I think of how I saw you

today and you were glad …

I lift my eyes and raise my head.

I cast my shoulders back and widen my stride

(for yours is not the direction in which I place my step),

and I begin to whistle.

I'm waiting at a junction,

the kind with tables

whose use I always question 

until I use them.

There's food here,

the kind I would feel 

guilty eating anywhere

but at places like this.

But the real stars are the people,

the kind who can't be called a kind

of anything–

the wanderers,

lost in the snow that isn't there.

There's a soft pop as you twist.

Plastic crinkles and you'd swear it cracks,

but it never does.

You open your mouth

and tilt your hand,

already wet,

already dripping and cold,

until your gums feel a tingling icy numbness,

and you hardly notice the stuff go down your throat. 

Yes I'm not sure Maybe That was fantastic No really, it was

I'm not lying to you I don't know I had fun tonight too

Really? You're beautiful I'm not sure how to respond to that

That's funny I never saw any of this coming 

I'm good, and you? It's such a relief to hear you say that

I'm serious Okeydokey See you soon Good night beautiful

Good morning to you too I'm so sorry That sounded weird

You're good I don't want to get you sick Get some rest

I'll come bug you later You're too good for me I don't care

I brought you tea That's interesting Get well soon

I don't know what I'm doing either

I couldn't sleep last night

No. 

I promised I would never lie to you.

Can we talk?

Are you sure? 

A cup of iced coffee,

and a lemon bar.

A lack of commitments,

and a girl sitting at the next table,

who just made eye contact. 

A small smile, or two,

and both of you glance away,

and then back. 

What am I to you,

I wonder–

Am I a lump of clay, a blank canvas, a passive

Mirror?

You take

Your staff, your spear,

Of plastic, of wood, of chilled metal–

Your saber of steel and ink.

You carve your initials, your tears of salt

And blood, and you let them,

You force them to

Mingle with my own.

I feel your wounds in mine,

I bear them with a tenacity you will never know,

Never feel, never own.

My scars are a brand,

And I must wear them with a grudging pride, for

My birth and my death are by your hand,

By your soul and at your

Command.

Do not pretend

You understand–

I know you are lying,

Just as I know my own self, for in my sleep I hear:

Scratch ... scratch ...

An endless and torturous ringing. 

Five alarms set twenty minutes apart –

each one dismissed.

The creaks of the old, stained mattress before and after each alarm.

The inevitable snoring I’m still in denial about.

The walls of my home are a pale yellow plaster,

maybe cream, or beige …

probably not cream, now that I think about it,

but definitely not white.

My father telling me to wake up,

in that broken English he worked so hard for but never improved.

My father telling me to open the blinds in my grandmother’s makeshift bedroom.

My father telling me to put her shoes on for her.

The walls of my home have two holes

the size of tennis balls, the size of elbows.

One hides behind a picture frame in the foyer.

The other sits in plain sight, in my brother’s room upstairs.

My grandfather cooking for his wife.

My grandfather yelling at her for not getting out of bed.

My grandfather dropping dishes.

My grandfather exclaiming as he discovers the dishes someone dropped.

The walls of my home have scuff marks

from careless kids,

from my half-blind grandmother’s walker,

from twenty-four years of life.

Chinese soap operas.

Piano music.

The tired arguments or a three-generational household:

two generations of Taiwanese immigrants and one of spoiled American children.

The walls of my home have never been cleaned.

They’ve witnessed EMTs carrying my grandmother after she collapsed.

They’ve witnessed my grandmother coming home from rehab, and never getting better.

They’ve witnessed it all, and their ears ring with the echoes of our mistakes.