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The sharp scent of rain tumbles clumsily in as you tease window-hinges wider with the pads of your fingers. A siren trails close behind, uninvited, sears your eardrums, dies off down the block.
Your neighbors are arguing again. Laundry, loans, lack of commitmentā¦ like yesterday, like the day before.
You think it would be suffocating to wrap yourself up in someone elseās sheets.Ā
Itās five oāclock. Leaning against the sill and flicking the radio dial with one recently manicured nail, you tune into the local news. Roaring wall of static, then calm conversation between two anchors bubbling up through an old set of Panasonic loudspeakers.
You are feeling incomplete today, like yesterday, like the day before.
Rigatoni boils in the kitchen. You check the leftmost cabinet and find strawberry jam, unopened. You check the cupboard and look over a tub of tahini, a collection of canned soup, and a stack of pie tins. You check the counter, behind the cutlery. Finally, you check the fridge, ducking down to see only your own brown-eyed reflection in one last ā now empty ā jar of Prego. Your shoulders dip.
You slip on white sneakers, not-so-white-as-they-once-were. Why did you try to paint the front door? It is peeling now, ugly like a fledgling losing young feathers. Flecks of buttery yellow dapple paisley carpeting.
The great outdoors wait for you at the bottom of a cramped stairwell with twin light fixtures, both broken.
A sky like an old sweater is draped above Brooklyn, ready to wring itself out again at any moment.
Once around the block, rubber soles brushing damp cement, you walk briskly. At first you fling yourself against the humidity, then become self-conscious and adopt a slower pace as you near the corner store.
Two dollars, sixty cents. Like last week, like the week before.Ā
You and I, we are looking down at our phones and stumble into each other, halfway home.
It is no oneās fault.
You recognize me from somewhere, you say, and feel like a bad person for lying. You have never seen me before in your life. I ask for your number.
That night you eat too quickly, knowing youāll wish youād saved some leftovers.
I come over once, then again.
We go out for dinner at tacky restaurants, where art deco posters from the nineteen-thirties have pinned themselves up in scattered flocks across worn-out drywall and the menu is printed with strange font on laminated placemats. The appetizer sample photos are unnerving; the bruschetta cowers like a scared animal awash in excessive camera flash. I make a joke about it, and you laugh.
We order dishes to share. The food is always better than I expected, but not quite as good as you wanted it to be.
You donāt mind.
We talk for hours.
We agree, ballpoint pens are better.
I hold you, and the ten p.m. bus pulls you out of my arms and through the dusky streets, past crowds and utility poles.
I hold you, and we rhyme our steps. Burgundy is around us in the leaves and in the dirt. You wear a coat I gave you.
I hold you, and we swat flies out on your porch. The days are getting shorter.
I hold you, and we watch blu-ray CDs you found on sale. Soft light from the flatscreen plays across your face as you fall asleep. I keep the movie on a little longer.
I hold you. In December, we bring a blanket to Long Island and listen to the sound of snow falling on the dunes.
You call in sick for work too often.
I hold you, and you know my callouses well.
We share the same sheets; we are wrapped up in each other.
I hold you, and kiss your hair.
You smell like candied oranges.
The afternoons eat away at one another. Dishes pile like uneven layer-cakes in your kitchen sink, crested with suds.
You say you feel uninspired.
Now we argue about laundry, and the sounds of your unhappy apartment are heard through half-open windows.Ā
You shout, eyebrows furrowed like the pages of a book. A white plate soars from the grip of a trembling hand, misses an upturned chin, and interrupts us with its shattering.
This time, itās different.
Sleep escapes us ātil the sun is already planted on the easternmost rooftop.
I hurt you the way I learned to, and stay awhile, but donāt know why I stay.
We sink into sweet, heavy things: the saxophone in āCharcoal Babyā, shared creamsicles on hot Saturday evenings.
I see you less and less, and remember less and less of you.
Will I see you next week?
Yes, if you text me.
You forget,
just like weād both hoped.
Related Recs
--from my latest substack post--
ordering coffee, again.
iāll grab this one.
of course; itās no problem.
oat? soy? neither? okay, no milk, right.
itās a thursday, you donāt put milk in your coffee on thursdays, i remember.
you told me that last autumn for the first time.
at the shop on the corner of streets running north and south and east and west
the location as ambiguous as you were to me.
i held onto your words like candlelight,
which is to mean,
i felt myself grasping at the wick of your thoughts as they released.
hold onto it slowly, i did, each tendril of smoke had meaning, for you have never said things that did not matter.
iāve always held the space to gather up all your meaning, to keep attempting to collect the strands of everything that encapsulates you. the long strings of yarn strung together in loose cadence;
but i can keep the rhythm,
and i can keep the pace,
and i can hold the room for all of it,
iāll hold the threads in my palm and iāll grasp it with certainty.
because it is without effort,
there is no weight,
or burden,
or distraught,
to be the one to hold that which you carry;
it is not beyond my strength to hold all of you.
for to love was to bear it all,
or at least thatās what i read,
but isnāt that how it feels?
to be seen,
to be understood,
is to recognize that any
quirk
fear
inability
lack thereof
is not a withholding
nor weakness
nor failing
it is the space between us
the location in the strings where we meet in the middle
the threaded spiderweb of life has bound us this way
no, not doomed; no, not ill-fated.
for you are the red string connected to my wrist
the one that has lead me to you
the universal pull to unravel the thread so that i may reach you
even though you exist outside of my grasp as i see it now
all i ever needed was your hand pressed against mine
i want to feel myself expanding and compressing underneath the weight of your eyes
soft winding and slow crackling do we fall deeper
the string twisting
and tying
and threading
and then
loosening
unraveling
the yarn
crocheted and knitted do we find ourself
loose ends and damaged strands have we come together
to make whole the both of us
iāll order the same coffee every thursday
iāll walk you home from the station
iāll make the pasta that way you like it
and iāll keep writing these letters so that one day youāll read them
iāll press them with the flowers of your tomorrow
scented with the bloom of longing
sealed with the certainty of promise
the promise that iāll keep collecting and saving the things youād like
the letters
the movies
the albums
the trinkets
the odds
the ends
the things yet to be discovered
and the things youāll have to show me
iām just a scrapbook of all the things iāve loved before
a capsule of intricacy
iāll keep the light on outside
iāll wait on the porch
iāll keep the fire warm
iāll know when youāre here
and youāll know itās me
for the strings will connect,
the yarn unraveled,
the lines no longer crossing but joining.
and if itās a thursday,
a plain coffee, no milk
just so there isnāt any lack of a sign.
#poetry #letters #substack
Dec 5, 2024
ā
5ā6
19
Melbourne
East Asian
Drinks sometimes
Smokes sometimes
Ā
Photo 1:
Me, at the beach. Hands shielding my eyes from the Bondi sun. Maroon-stained lips pursed into a slight smile. Iām wearing a black camisole with a lace trim here. Hereās my body. Itās ok right. Iām not flaunting too hard either, its not sterile nor promiscuous. Not prudent nor slutty. Maybe an 8 on a good day.
Ā
Prompt 1:
Looking for the Q to my Anon.
Ā
Iām funny arenāt I. Iām curt, though not really. Get it, get it, get it?
Ā
Look
Photo 2:
Casino
If anything, itās a critique of our opulent hungry society. One more drink, one more bump, one more spin. Jesus Christ youāre so insufferable.
Ā
Prompt 2:
Ā
Ā
Photo 3:
Blah, blah, blah
Prompt 3:
Blah, blah, blah
Ā
I hope you want me. I hope you need me. I hope you think that Iām different. Though not that different to be strictly unapproachable. Iām self-aware, I think. I donāt know what I think, I just hope you like me.
Ā
Iām commodifying myself to be diced and served in 3 courses. I think about you thinking about me. Gay son or thought daughter. Thought the thot daughter.
Ā
I can be the answer to the male loneliness epidemic. I can fix you, make you whole.
Ā
You like Kaufman? Pynchon?
Haha. Youāre such a loser. God, youāre so fucking annoying. God, I need you. Though I can find another one of you in less than 10 swipes.
Ā
Weāre so different from everyone else, arenāt we.
We are just like everyone else.
You. Me.
Ā
Tu.
Ā
Are you scared of silence? Did you feel the temperature dropping 10 degrees when the sun kissed the moon? Iām scared of silence too. Not because Iām such a tortured genius that Iām too small of a vessel to hold all of my erudite neuroticism. Not, really. In fact, Iām more like a birthing mother.
Ā
Not much lactation going on. No milk for my baby. My baby who was so snug and warm in my womb of noises. Of Colgate ads and affirmation reels, of the James Joyce that Iāll never finish, of the refrigeratorās vibration of the āI just cleared my to do list but youāre added to itā. The comforting cacophony of nothingness is gone now. Here comes the silence.
Ā
Iām worried. I worry you; you worry me. I worry that Iāll never know what the difference between fear and anxiety is.
Ā
Iām pressing my nose against the window now; my breath is fogging up everything. I think I see my profile popping up in your discovery page. Like me please. Please. Please. Please.
Ā
I donāt know. Maybe Iāll give this sincerity thing a shot.
Ā
Words I like:
Salacious. Itās scandalous and juicy
Apr 9, 2024
š
I have this historical tendency where the second I get the sudden unmistakable feeling that a home is no longer forever, I stop tending to it. Dirty clothes pile up, the washed laundry sits unfolded, clutter accumulates, and I no longer wish to decorate. I disengage because my future is no longer tethered to this place; Iām being pulled forward from elsewhere and itās only a matter of time.
I apologize for my inactivity, my malaise; I tell them that Iām going through a rough time and struggling to fully function. Iām feeling burnt out after years treading water with a cinderblock tied to my ankle and I worry day and night about external forces beyond my control that threaten to sink us both. They tell me thereās always an excuse; that Iām perpetually miserable and dissatisfied; that I only care about myself.
Of course, Iām not the only person living in this house. Theyāve long since absconded from their share of the duty to this space we inhabit together, and yet Iām the one who is accused of giving up.
Every week for a decade, Iāve been matching their socks into pairs, rolling up their underwear, and promptly hanging up their clothing fresh out of the dryer to prevent wrinkles from setting ināand they didnāt even notice. They told me they were perfectly happy rummaging through the laundry basket every day.
Sometimes they will wash my clothesādelicates tossed in with T-shirts, jeans thrown in the dryer and tumbled until they shrinkābut nobody has ever put away my laundry but me.
Feb 21, 2025
Top Recs from @ad
Sep 14, 2024
do you feel as though you are living the wrong version of your life?
as though all those around you are doing the same?
why don't we talk about itā¦ find me at the end of a corridor, and letās talk about it.
Sep 11, 2024
