The flood from my eyes

must be ocean water

found

from the last time

when I was at the beach

a millennia ago

a distant memory I’d

forgotten

I could even reach

how else would

it be salty?

I am drowning,

and something croons a soft song

in my ear; a siren song,

serenading me to my

death

My mind is defenseless

after being spun through a washing machine

on maximum power,

wrung dry.

Month – May Year – 2023

Before 'Change'

She looks slightly sideways at him, a silly grin twirling off her lips, standing outside his car with the sun shining on their faces. Her stomach flips twice and then times seventeen as he looks back at her, time slowing down to second by second, and he smiles. In her head, she curses herself for ever falling for him in the first place- so stupid of her to do, so much pain and hurt and denial and insanity and anger, so much happiness and so much lightheartedness, such an oxymoron to the point that she is the moron- but it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to her anyway. But she stands there, simply smiling despite her thoughts, looking at him. Something in his expression changes, and he ducks inside the car, quickly waving goodbye for the day.

He asks her later over text why she looked at him like that. “like what? when? wdym” She replies, staring at her phone.

“the equivalent of ‘get someone who looks at you the way a starved man looks at food does’,” he types. “or ’get someone who looks at you the way tom looks at zendaya. ykwim, like at the car when i was about to go.

She sits there for a second, still staring, confused as to who would ever say that phrase but understanding it at the same time, and decides on mild sarcasm and joking humor (as per usual).

“i’m f*cking in love with you” she types, and then deletes it, her eyes narrowing and eyebrows furrowing, and then types it again and smacks send and sighs and throws her phone into her backpack and half-runs-half-walks across her house to get a cup of apple juice and folds exactly twenty-four articles of clothing, suddenly being productive for the next ten minutes.

When she picks up her phone, he’s apologizing for something that he couldn’t help but do and was never his fault, and she falls all over again. After all, how could she not?

She falls all over again every time she sees him in the hallways, whenever she’s walking with him alone or with friends. She falls all over again when they make eye contact, and they stare until one of them cracks a grin first, or when one of them glances away out of nervousness but looks back a second later. She falls all over again when they’re in a crowded room and somehow the first person she looks up to is him. She falls all over again when they sit far away from each other, but their eyes still find each other, somehow.

She falls all over again when she braids little strands of his hair slowly, hoping the moment will never end, never having enough time to style his curls exactly how she likes, even though she’d never change anything about him.

She falls all over again when she purposefully brushes past him in an empty hallway as an excuse to put her chin on his shoulder.

She falls all over again when she sees his expression light up, when he loses himself in his characteristic bubbly laughter or in the crushing weight of his tears and fears.

She falls all over again when - perhaps this is bad of her to fall over - it is, it is, it really, really is bad - she’s the only one who he trusts enough to comfort him during a panic attack after a competition.

She falls all over again when he calms down by arranging pieces of sequins and glitter that she found on the floor into the shape of flowers and lets her hold him. She falls all over again when he apologizes for getting her shoulder wet. She falls all over again when he manages to laugh through his tears. She falls all over again when he doesn’t want anyone else in the fluorescent, sickly bright room but her and even goes so far as to block the door with a chair. She falls all over again when he tells her, later, that she was the only one who understood what he was trying to say and what he had felt.

She fell all over again, in those moments, in the past, when they were only friends, and he had a girlfriend - not her.

She falls all over again whenever he texts back something silly and wholly unserious, when he shows he cares, when he teases her, when he teases his friends.

She wonders if he knows that he holds her heart in the palm of his hand, if he knows that sometimes, the longing for someone who is so far away and yet too close to touch is simply too much for her, for anyone at all, to bear.

She falls all over again when he looks at her - when he really, truly looks at her - and she can tell that at that moment, she’s really, truly there, and not floating somewhere in space, though her heart probably thinks otherwise.

She finds falling scary, and absolutely hates the vulnerable feeling of it, but she thinks that if it’s with someone who likes you back, it’s okay. It’s good, even.

-

Month – July Year – 2023

After 'Change'

He’s back from his month of vacation, where they disjointedly texted across half of the globe, day clashing with night.

They joke together, send photos of everyday things. He doesn't ever tell her he loves her. She did, though only three times exactly, and in short text slang.

He texts her the moment he lands. It’s two fifty-seven in the morning. She sees the text when she wakes up for water, at eight-oh-five. The numbers are engraved into her mind - she couldn’t forget them if she wished. She texts him a reply. He answers almost instantly: “can i call u” and she gets a call.

“Hhhi.” He’s audibly groggy.

“You okay?” She asks, worried. “What’s wrong? Did you need something?”

“...Nnno.” He answers slowly.

“Well, why’d you call me then?” She laughs, albeit quietly.

“Jus’ wanted ’t hear... your voice.” He says after a pause, his own voice coated with sleepiness. She knows he sounds like that every morning, anyway.

“Oh.” She mumbles, shocked but not shocked, touched to her core, and it feels like every nerve in her body is smoldering, on fire.

They both sit in silence for five minutes, before she gathers the courage to say something, anything. “Did you want me to talk, then?”

“S’okay. You don’ hafta.”

She smiles into the phone speaker, exhaling softly- like he can see her face.

She swears he’s smiling into the speaker, too.

They meet up for sushi with friends and get bubble tea a day later. It’s everyone in their friend group, but just them at the same time.

But he sits on the other side of the booth.

But he doesn’t rest his head on her shoulder.

But he smiles less. At her.

But he meets eyes with her hesitantly, and instead of holding the contact like they usually do, he breaks it. A record of (based on average) twenty seconds earlier than usual.

But who’s keeping count?

She leaves a week later for her vacation, having only seen him once; leaves halfway across the globe, too.

-

Month – August Year – 2023

She’s back from her month of vacation, a strictly minimal tech affair as mandated by her parents, and he’s still at home, doing who knows what. They texted once the entire month.

They don’t meet up.

Practice for their sport starts soon, two weeks before another semester of college begins, only she’s quitting that coming year, and he’s not.

It’ll be hot out there, on the concrete and the grass, under the shade of the trees and under the burning sun.

Their: because they are a duet, one half of the other: she only feels fully complete doing this, that, anything, if it is with him. Always: when it comes time to compete, when it comes time to pack up, when it comes time to practice a specific skill, when it comes time to walk down to the lockers, when it comes time to walk to class, to lunch, to the buses that take them back "home", but they are each other’s home.

Are. Were.

It’ll be cool inside, on the yoga mat and the white leather couch, under the teal covers of her bed and in her books and novels.

She hasn’t texted him. She texted him when she landed, and didn’t get the urge to call. He responded, but she didn’t. Oddly enough, it was freeing, not having to. She liked the feeling of being free- it was addicting, and quickly became something she craved- and decided to hold on to it for just a little longer. A little longer. Every single day. Just a little longer.

He hasn’t texted her. At all.

She hasn’t cried. At all.

She cried back in May, when he told her he liked her back after breaking up with his girlfriend- that was a reason why he broke up with his girlfriend- and she was scared and uncertain and it felt like the world was breaking when in reality it was her heart that was breaking, because she knew deep inside that it wasn’t real and it would never, ever be something real.

So she doesn’t cry anymore, not now; no, not now, no, not ever, not over this.

She’s glad, in a way, that she doesn’t cry. It isn’t worth it, in some respects. In others, it is. But she’s mostly glad.

She doesn’t know if he ever loved her, so she simply gives him closure. A last text, a last everything, a last whatever.

He gives her nothing in return; nothing for her last act of love, if it can be called that now, towards him.

It’s closure enough for her to move on, move on faster than she thought was possible. She doesn’t really talk about it with friends, nor does she have the chance to see him often - it’s mostly forgotten, until she sees him randomly in the hallways or on the sidewalks, and has to blink back a flinch. Because seeing him - a part of herself, something that was once so vital and instrumental in her life - and having no reaction - is hard. Something that was a love, another life.

It was a love she could never forget, though, so she immortalizes it in words. In the form of eternal emotion, eternal feeling, that she lives and breathes, that shines in her eyes and flows through her voice, that sparks in her bones and sings in her blood.

i like a boy

he plays drums during football games

he wears sweaters that feel soft against my skin

he is not popular, neither is he obscure

he is thoughtful and quiet but also

loud and excited

while i am a talker

with him i love to listen

i write poetry, words in my veins

he does complex calculations in his brain

he is tall where i am short;

ice while i am fire;

patient when i am impulsive

when i look at him warmth spreads

in my chest, filling up empty channels of

my being, in the same way

that pride does, that joy does,

that love does-

i think i like this boy

-

i used to know for sure

yet that changed in time smaller than a hairpin

i used to know for sure

what i wanted

what i would dream

what i wanted to dream

conviction is not for me,

for me in my head

no matter if it seems to be

anywhere i go

i cannot help but think

why was i on the brink

of something that could’ve been

my greatest

mistake

or my greatest feeling

in the moment

driving back from the game

staring back on the dance floor

laughing about things that we hate

that’s when i felt the greatest

i was trying to tell you

but you ended up being my weakness

used to think angels surrounded you

planned my days all around you

though i made a wish on elevens

though i made a wish on my birthday

i was lost until i left you

and then i found what i used to be

-

i like to read old emails

to see who i used to be

sift through years of poetry

flip the pages of

slanted handwriting

i am addicted to nostalgia

it is evident in the way that i

save old movie tickets and countless letters

storage plan to keep my pictures

maybe it is because i cannot make sense of my past;

i have not yet understood who i used to be

-

i have not yet understood who i am now, either

i don’t know if i ever will

occasionally, i look at the sky

and i know inside that

it’s the same sky i see

that you see

do we think about it

the same way?

and i guess i still

don’t know

who i am

because then i would not wonder

how you are

how you feel

how i’m so much happier

how i’m so much sadder

then i would not

need

to care

only care for me

yet though i wish i could,

i cannot

because who am i?

-

salty tears and sweet relief

bitter throat and raw screams

we describe terrible things

with adjectives that deserve to be used better

our minds are collectively a mess

scattered from the west coast to the eastern seas

wonder if i’ll find mine one day

but for now i’m just fine without it

adhd diagnosis

bitter relief

years of conditioning has made me believe that

you are weak

but i am happy that this helps

some semblance of life

make sense

-

arm in arm

hand in hand

heart to heart

you make me redefine love

I miss the simple days

Where laughing was laughing

And smiling was smiling

Where did we learn to look into such things

With such scrutiny

With such carefulness

-

sometimes you remember

remember what it was like

to be young, to be free, to be wild

to be happy, to be sad,

and simply to be.

what happened to me?

we are no longer happy and carefree

will we ever get that feeling again

those golden years

were perhaps

not always so golden

It became a factor of my thinking to associate the smell of tangerines, sugar and sweet, citrusy orange with you.

Orange was everything about you.

You were loud in the way that glowing orange embers popped on silent camp nights, extroverted in the way those flames would shoot up towards the sky, aesthetically pleasing to my appreciative gaze in the way that you always looked so sharp and so perfect just like how the color orange was, personality bold in the way that there was never a dull moment with you just like how the flavor of oranges are, but in the way that in those moments I was either constantly second guessing myself or laughing with you as you laughed about anything.

Orange, now, tastes somewhat bittersweet.

I still love this tropical twist trident gum; as a matter of fact, I chew it every day; but all I can think about is the way it was always constantly swirled on your breath like a – not like a nuisance, but – a caress.

You’d walk past me and blow me a citrus-sweet kiss, or you'd give me a sip of your water and I'd taste it on the rim of the bottle, or you’d smile softly, the corners of your lips angled upwards, eyes fixed on my mouth, lean in and capture my mouth with yours, bring your hands to cup the sides of my face accented by a delightful tang of orange in your mouth- but I bury this love- this love that I don’t know if I still have for you, or for this color, or for this fragrance, or for this flavor, or for this fruit.

Only yesterday did I try a different gum, wholly by chance. It was an impulse purchase, the packaging a bright pink. It is called Island Berry Lime. The lime was... a lie, like how you would lie with that signature sweetness-

But it was just strawberries. No 'Island' or 'Lime', only berry.

There were no feelings associated with the gum.

Just strawberries. No feelings, good or bad.

Well, I think I liked the gum, anyway.

I’ll probably buy it again. Probably, because when it runs out before the other gum I always buy, I’ll buy this one.

I'll buy this strawberry gum again, and again, and again.

What follows is an interview with the corpse of a man who asked me to build him a metal skeleton. He entered my home one day much to my own surprise, and I found myself tired of his nonsense very quickly, but I thought it important enough to document and prolong the existence of. V refers to me, and C to the corpse.

V: Sir, I must ask, why do you want metal bones?

C: Why would I not want metal bones, ma’am, I see no reason not to have metal bones.

V: Because you’re a corpse, sir, I find it quite absurd you would even tell me you desire to have metal bones at all.

C: Why? Are you prejudiced against the dead? You know there’s simply nothing different between you and I... aside from a few factors.

V: Well, I’d not like to ask about that, moreso, what do you even find appealing about it? What are you supposed to do with metal bones at all?

C: I’d like metal bones because Jeremy, the man with the grave next to mine, well, my neighbor, who asks me daily if I’ve seen his daughter, the nutcase, won’t shut up about how he’s better than me for his having of metal bones, something all the ghouls and wayward spirits giggle about.

V: But what does that matter to you, really? Is it not ok simply to have... priceless bones?

C: Eh... I believe the ethereal and humane finds itself imposed upon some kind of... overemphasis. I think that the strength and spiritual alleviation will be worth it... uhm.

V: So, you care about material, or is it something else? All I’m hearing is a very human desire for material satisfaction and the societal pressures to get it. I thought being dead would separate you from that, you know, because you’re dead, but hey, you do you, I guess.

C: ...

V: Not trying to force you into anything here, but it seems like that to me.

C: You’re right.

And moments later, he left, never to return. Metal bones ring like metronomes, do you really need paper and new parts to make yourself whole?

-

Jeremy arose from his grave for the four hundredth twenty second time.

He looked to his left. His neighbour was not awake yet.

A pity.

Jeremy often looked forward to seeing him (bothering him.)

(Jeremy was a shallow man, and his parents were shallow, too, having accidentally married each other on a drunken, hazy, party-filled night on their community college graduation day.

[His parents were third cousins, and all they cared for were the family jewels. Or: two marriage rings, and three statement necklaces.]

[They, needless to say, did not inherit the jewellery.]

As Jeremy was a shallow man, he included in his ‘in case I die’ instructions [there were twenty copies of the envelope] that, as the mortician(s) prepared him, leave the precious metals of his skeleton alone.

[Jeremy was shallow, so he had not opted to be an organ donor.]

[He had fatty liver disease, anyway.]

[Also, it did end up being three morticians assisting in his preparation.]

[Jeremy was not skinny.]

[It was a side effect of his shallowness; he was excellent at denying personal faults.])

It was those precious metals of his skeleton that Jeremy particularly enjoyed bothering his neighbour about.

His neighbour lacked them, and as Jeremy was shallow, he thought it quite funny that his neighbour thought the metal beneath him.

(Yes, the bones were beneath him, but he was shallow, so he was not smart enough to understand the play-on-words his neighbour had provided.)

Once, his neighbour left. Jeremy did not know where to, other than the fact that he seemed to glance at him enviously, then disappeared.

The envy on his neighbour's face, compared to the envy of other people’s faces, was odd.

Jeremy shrugged and decided to not care.

He was shallow, after all.

The neighbour never seemed to be as bothered after that one day.

It bothered Jeremy, instead, that his neighbour was less shallow than him.

He was shallow, after all.

“Contrary to where you always are, I knew I’d find you here.”

The sound of someone’s voice other than his made him perk up, but the gears of recognition turned fast enough so that he wouldn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“Not all that you’d expected, hm?” He merely responds, gazing out at a glittering sea, flashing good-byes in morse code with the sun’s setting rays.

“More than what I expected,” She approaches, and he can feel her presence behind him, but he doesn’t dare turn.

The wind peppers sand onto their cheeks and into their hair, pressing miniscule kisses of grains onto their skin. The two stay in silence, the only sounds being the beck and calls from birds, the hiss of waves hitting sand, and the voices and splashing of families in the water.

“Why do you prefer the beach over- let’s say- your home?” Her question floats down from above, curiosity painting her tone.

“The beach is never the same every time. It changes and it ebbs and it flows, but a room doesn’t.” He blinks, the answer coming out of him before he could really think about it. Before that, he never really knew why he came to the beach to distract himself, especially considering he was never down there to play in the water or the sand.

“You like the ‘ebb and flow’?” She mutters her thoughts out loud, quickly following with another question. “You like change then?”

“I don’t. Ironic, isn’t it? I’m at the farthest point from liking change.” He swings his legs, the huge drop from atop the seawall gaping underneath him. “I can’t handle change.”

A non-committal hum rings by his ear as she sits down beside him, kicking her feet in time with his. They don’t talk for a while, basking in the cacophony of laughing and splashing, cawing and sizzling. The foam on the sand flickers away before their eyes, the sound of fizzling sounding awfully like a farewell. The chatter and bits and pieces of conversation coming from the walkers passing behind them kept them entertained, coming up with scenarios of what happened before that when they’re out of earshot.

They stay like this for a little while longer, until the sun is barely peeking over the horizon, seemingly staying just to stare at them. It reminds him of a curious child, one too short to fully see over the counter. He stands, offering a hand to the girl next to him. She doesn’t see it until she’s already up, and takes his hand, thinking it was a request to hold hands. He doesn’t mind. It’s different from before, it’s become more intimate than he last remembers. A glance at her through his peripherals confirms this, a nervous, but confident shine in her eyes. He squeezes her hand, and the nervousness disappears, a soft squeeze his only response.

Maybe this change wasn’t so bad.

Even as the hot embers burned her

She could not help

But reminisce on what a

Wonderful fire

It once was

-

A bridge, a box of matches

Feel the soot build on my palms

Smoke stings my eyes, the catch is,

The flames are so wonderfully, warm

Maybe there’s a reason

We built the fire like gold

Like there’s treasure in the burning

Like parting ways are new beginnings

-

I’d like to say I’d stay forever

Believe that I could stay, pretend

That eggshells felt like moss

Beneath my feet

Wish I could still be ten, or younger

But spring sun breaks to autumn thunder

A journey’s not a journey without grief

Crackling trauma

I hear the silent static wait

This is an opera

Of color, of death, and of fate

There is still beauty

In inferno, you will see

We can phoenix-fly together

Two directions, of one feather

I’ve tried to play along so nice

I’ve given you the chance, once, twice

Three times, but counting gets a little old

Wish you had been the one to break

But if I’ve flaws, I can’t be fake

It’s both our requiems

If truth be told

Bow down before your arsonist

I’ll take this last breath with a kiss

And close your eyes, your soul flies high

I’ll sing you ashen lullabies

Nero, he can bring his lyre

And I will light the funeral pyre

They don’t build beauty like this anymore

A bridge, a box of matches

The soot against my palms

Lungs filled with smoke and ashes,

The flames are a burning storm

A moment in the madness

Where I could find regret

Do you realize, it’s tragic-

It’s not me I must protect

I give you my peace, and I’ll wait for the ash to grow cold

I love you, I love you – I love you enough to let go.