NOAH FANG LIU

do not ask me for a name, my tongue is silent— do not ask me for a face, my pen is still— do not ask me if I still see his silhouette when the sun sets slow and                        the light paints him almost alive and not quite whole, my dreams are empty—

ask me how he likes to burn, self-immolation an art and performance in equal measure; ask me of the gray that follows him like a lost child through the day, wrapped close at night; ask me why my tattoo heart chose him for an anchoring—know I have no good answer to give;

I am standing here in the eye of the hurricane, watching how you drag yourself closer to shore,                       a dark and quiet state of being,                       scales blacker than the waters I’d let you sink into so long ago,                       the only one to defy their depths.

the city is almost at capacity, but the bodies keep piling higher                                  and higher                                         to block out the sun.

we were never meant to make it this far, long past expiration, but we did. shame. all that careful planning, calculations into the late hours of some forgotten cycle, gone to waste.

I promise I didn't choose this, but the lines kept tangling in ways they were never meant to, knots tied 'round both hands. I'm sorry.

come find me at the beginning of it all.

love,        me

never did believe one way or another:                not on you,                not in me,                not in divinity gone sour,

but there is something to be said for childhood laid out an offering at the altar.

you used to meet him under the bleachers after class, sneaking around behind your families' backs like you could hide from inevitability.

I used to watch from the second floor library window, silent spectator to your show for two, as though I had any right to it.

you buried him beneath the cucumbers the last summer before the end, a shallow bod  in a shallow grave, left a feast for the worms.

“late night catching up with yesterday” “dawn failed to set the alarm again” “I thought you wouldn’t notice—you never look at me anymore anyway”

and maybe there’s a truth buried amidst the false there; maybe my eyes don’t turn to watch how dust becomes gold with a touch like they used to,

but haven’t you heard? punctuality is a virtue, and at least one of us must still abide.

I turned on the shower when you called so you wouldn’t hear what I’d turned into, though both of us know that’s been a long time coming, and only one of us still cares enough to play pretend a little longer.

the clock is ticking, and if I had any shred of decency or change to spare, I’d play along too, but no one has time for good deeds these days.

so how do I tell you there is a strict NO-RETURN policy on this timeline we both patron:

no refunds no exchanges ALL SALES ARE FINAL [ thank you, please come again ]

because you’re not the only one who doesn’t recognize the thing wearing my skin, but I can’t bring myself to care enough to take back what was never fully mine.

MATCHA: the monsters in your head are only as real as you want them to be—is that why you still linger in the aftermath?