light

i had never been good at biting my tongue.

[w--xxn]

all I ever seem to do is write about you.

my notebook is filled to bursting with things I never got to say or never had the courage to but I’m slightly intoxicated with both love, despair, and brandy from my mom’s emergency alcohol closet so I’m pulling out my inner Kanye West and I’ll pretend that you’ll hear me from miles away as I say that

  I write about your hands slotted perfectly in mine I write about hearts intertwined on couches that never really belonged to us

  I write about how we lose ourselves to the comfort found in static brought by stereos playing a station only 3 other people in this room listen to and we dance horribly to obscure indie bands and cheap pop music Delivering words that we never quite understood But pretended to anyway

  I write about how we drink down bottles of unsaid ‘I Love You’s That we never fail to take for granted After which I pick up your shattered pieces You, wrapped up in my arms filled with scratches and scars As I deliver you into the arms of another Dropping you off at the doorstep of a house that I was never invited to

  I write about how when we’re so caught up in the moment That in those small lapses of sobriety I think one of us will break admit that we are completely and utterly in love with each other and I’ll say all the dumb metaphors that you always laugh at   like how social media only becomes social when I associate the two syllables of your name to it dripping with irony as I ignore every message beep that isn’t you in an effort to avoid the disappointment with it

  and I write about you staying up too late and me sleeping too early about how we took those things for granted me in my lullaby and you with your sirens blaring at full force

  I write about you over and over and over again Like the thrumming of the bass line that I can never seem to get out of my head but the song switches and so does our train of thought because our attention spans are as short as flies so it amazes me as to why I’ve gotten so far without getting even a little bit tired of you.

  I write about how I find the meaning of every love song I’ve ever listened to in you. the girl who stumbles over her words as much as on pavements with cold hands that never quite did justice to her warm heart and how people had never quite handled you with the care that you so righteously deserved how I would run to you in a heartbeat to make you feel less alone but the doors remain closed so I get down on my knees and slip underneath a note about how I write about the people that had told me you were a detonator ready to explode And I replied that it was a shame they’d miss the fireworks To not see the beauty found in a passion that only you could ever possess Hanging a flag bearing the blood stains of all you have conquered to stay alive I might not be a conservative republican But I’d scream “God Bless America!” at the top of my lungs if it meant that you were the Fourth of July

  I write about how we had first met You were nothing but a fever dream One that I had doubted seeing Blaming it on too many cups of coffee that remind me that I still have a heartbeat And I can’t stop beating myself up over the fact that one small trace of doubt would have led to me Missing you completely.

  I write about how I miss you. Oh, god, how I miss you. And every syllable I write about you is bittersweet Like flavored cough drops on my tongue And though they may heal, they honestly, without a doubt, suck And it honestly, without a doubt, sucks that you’re not here beside me.

 I write about how the audience booed us For they could never quite comprehend What melody we were dancing to What beat our hands had tried to clap with But I would give them the encore that they never wanted in a heartbeat if it meant Seeing you smile again

 I write about your smile. No, scratch that, I think about your smile at every waking point of my life And I’ve come to terms that your smile is the only drug I’ll ever need To fall asleep And want to wake up again

 I write about you.

 I write about you way too often.

 And I think about you. And you run through my mind As if we’re running out of time Before we detonate A ticking that we heard but never wanted to listen to But, honey, I’ll take any amount of time they give me And all the consequences If it means spending every waking minute with you.

  Darling,

 I write about you. It’s all I ever seem to do.

--words are more of a medicine than a drug. 

[w--xxn]

happy pride month! i'm gay.

[w--xxn]

pb & j: hana

            The night before she met Marty, Hana had been stuck at home with the flu. She reached for the tissue box, sparing a listless glance at the film playing beside it. The pair’s easy relationship irritated her. Being single meant that Julia Roberts wasn’t going to magically appear at her doorstep with a steaming bowl of soup, no matter how hard she willed it into existence.

             “Hugh Grant has all the luck,” she muttered, voice hoarse. 

             She stared at her laptop; her pallid reflection gazed back at her from the screen’s edges. Thanks to her lack of foresight to stock up the medicine cabinet with anything other than Vicks VapoRub and Ginseng Tea, she had to use her personal remedy: romcoms. Hana peered closer, eyes squinting at the dim screen.

              This is the part where the two first meet. Their backdrop: a bustling street filled with people hurriedly moving without having any particular place to go. The scene’s cast: a celebrity walking with eyes downcast, a failing book shop owner strolling with a caffeine-induced skip in his step, and the nursing student who unknowingly nudged the book shop owner’s arm, effectively dousing the celebrity in coffee in the process.

             All it took was a spilled cup of coffee for the celebrity and book shop owner to fall hopelessly in love with each other. It was such an inconsequential moment—buying an overpriced cup of coffee at this point was as natural to Hana as breathing, much like any other college student—yet one mere coincidence gave it incommunicable meaning. People all over the world would still mill about, holding soy lattes in their hands and spilling them on other people, but it would never carry the same weight  as it did for them.

             For Hana, it wasn’t a cup of coffee that changed her life. It was two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

             As a girl, she had always been fascinated by the stars. For her, they were beacons guiding everyone with a subtlety that only she could pick up  on. In the vast expanse of dark, they were her light; they shone with a knowing brilliance, making themselves apparent to her. I am here. I have planned everything out, they seemed to say to her. I am watching over you. Now, as she gazed up at the stars, Marty by her side, she recalled what the stars had told her years ago, and the memory filled her with an indescribable warmth.

             She remembered the first time she had felt that warmth. It was the day she met Marty. Hana stared at the endless column of students ahead of her, distraught. Living in such a concentrated district like the University Belt meant that even the lines at the pharmacy were long. Although, she duly noted as the couple ahead of her approached the counter with apparent dread, students came here for entirely different reasons.

             In the ten minutes that passed after she had left the counter, two remarkable things happened. The first was that after taking a third bite out of her breakfast, she came to a realization: the sandwich she was eating had grape jam instead of her mandatory strawberry jam. Hana hated grapes. She would have never put it in something as sacred as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. That realization, however, was overshadowed by the second remarkable thing that occurred to her on that day: a cute girl had just sat next to her.

             Hana wasn’t one to be flustered, she wore her unbridled confidence on her sleeve like a shield, but when Hana had accidentally caught the girl’s eye, she felt her face heat up like a kettle ready to explode. When she saw her, Hana felt like a child again, looking up at the night sky.

             Upon closer inspection, she recognized the girl’s face. She had come from the same pharmacy. The girl took out a small piece of bread from her paper bag. Hana raised a hand to cup her face and felt it burn with newfound vigor. She wondered why she hadn’t reacted the same way back then.

             “Ugh, strawberry,” the girl said, wincing in disgust.

             Hana’s ears perked up at the sound. “Huh?”

             The girl looked up, surprised. “Sorry, must’ve sounded weird out of context. It’s strawberry jam. I don’t put strawberry jam in my sandwiches. Probably mixed it up with someone else’s.”

             The girl’s words were succinct and precise. Hana found it endearing.

             “Funny you mention that. I happened to get a peanut butter sandwich with the grossest thing in the world,” Hana crinkled her nose. “Grape jam. Guess we’re both down on our luck.”

             The girl held her sandwich out to her. “Here. You can have mine.”

             Hana looked up at her, surprised. “What?”

             “It’s fine. I pinched a piece off, though. Hope that doesn’t bother you.”

             “Oh, no, you don’t have to! Really. It’s fine.” Hana said, letting out a long string of words to fend her off. “I’m down with the flu. At least, I think it’s the flu. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.  At least, not yet. I guess. Anyways, even if I wanted to, I don’t have anything to trade that wouldn’t get you sick too. Plus, it’s your breakfast. I don’t want to impose on you or anything. People should eat. It’s good for their health. Skipping meals is dangerous stuff. Honestly. Like, are you s-“

              The girl smiled. “Really, I don’t mind.”

             It only took four words, two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and one big coincidence for Hana to fall in love with her. Or, to be more accurate, it had taken a string  of coincidences. If the bright summer sky  was replaced with bleak clouds and frigid air, Hana would have never noticed how the girl’s smile could rival the sun. If the restaurant beside them had been playing The Chainsmokers when they started talking, the conversation would have morphed into one borne from irritation instead of love, ending too quickly and missing the point entirely. If Hana hadn’t felt the unmistakable warmth that was brought about by just looking at the girl, she would have brushed it off as a mere act of kindness and nothing more.

             The night before she met Marty, Hana had been watching a film founded on coincidences. She had thought that the spilled coffee was only given meaning in retrospect; the pair’s love story had spun so out of control they were merely looking for a starting point. But now, as she stared at the girl, she understood. Love wasn’t found in the coincidence itself but in the little things that people tend to miss in that moment.

             She wasn’t so ridiculous that she would fall in love with a stranger over a sandwich. She had fallen in love when she saw the way the girl’s eyes crinkled when she smiled.  Hana’s heart had fluttered as she tilted her head listening to her ramble on about nothing at all. She knew that if the coincidence had never occurred to begin with, none of this would have happened. But it was the subtleties that she had picked up on that led a coincidence to grow into love.  If anything occurred differently, she knew they wouldn’t have ended up together. But the warmth that she had surrounded her body and painted her cheeks scarlet as she took the sandwich in her hand, mumbling a curt ‘thank you’ under her breath, made sure that they did.

             Right now, she and Marty were looking up at the stars.

             “Marty,” Hana said, turning to face her. “Remember the first time we met?”

             “Of course.” Marty said pointedly, preoccupied with the sight of the stars.

             “I’ve never been more grateful for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in my life.”

             Marty laughed, turning away from the stars to grin widely at her. “It was a pretty big coincidence.”

             Hana turned to stare at the stars that stood watch above her. The beacons of light that she had so relied on had guided her to a new light, one that had made the stars pale in comparison to her brilliance. I am here. I have planned everything out, they had once said to her. She had never doubted them for a second.    

             “No,” Hana said, clasping Marty’s hand tight in her own.

             I am watching over you.

             “It was fate.”