You and I - 
a miracle,
though fugitive,
yet isn't loss the fate of all beauty?
                 -–a prelude

---
Today, I walked past a young couple,
who resembled us
the weekend 
we stood acoast Charles River.

Their hands interlocked,
quivered
as leaves rustle in the wind,
attached by a fragile string,
smitten by a late autumn hail,
then fall apart like all else.

Their bags
overflowed with rose petals,
spilling as they go
in this labyrinth called life
full of stops, turns, and cloverleaves
that no one could foretell.

"Be my harbor!"
"Be my pillow whispers!"
"Be my favorite book yellowed with age!"
A vow,
a skip-day rendezvous,
a "your-love-eats-me-alive."
Infatuation,
belongingness,
possessive­ness,
delirium–
I will betray the world
to chase your shadow.

Love ringed down the curtain
perfect as it was,
until I pulled the ribbon - 
a bow,
we came nicely undone.

As for now,
this afternoon,
on an escape made for two,
their gazes collided,
and two dots connected.
In a single blip of alignment
across time and space,
they offered each other the Universe.
Knowing this,
Is enough.

On the brim of my tree,
which sprouts and sprawls
and weaves a canopy that catches the sun,
perches a little ghost.

That's you,
Do you see?

To know you,
I have forgotten my impetuosity.
Silk reeling off from cocoons,
layer by layer,
as I spend every second unveiling
your happiness,
your stumbles,
things you despise,
things you love,
and things you live for.
I've gone from being infatuated
with your smile
to falling in love
with every facet of you.

Even the most ethereal semantics can not conjure
the lovely wishes we share:
maple-tinted sunsets,
heart-shaped pancakes,
kisses on the neck,
sporadic dances on the kitchen floor...

You strum the strings of a guitar
carelessly,
improvising a lovely tune
we heard
as we passed by the record store.
An enthralling picture,
how I long
to lay my eyes on you
for a lifetime.

One day,
I will show up in your city
wearing my prettiest dress
with all my butterflies
and dewy flowers
and fallen leaves,
searching
a destination for all my wanderings.

I hope the breeze
caresses your eyelids like velvet
when you gaze into my eyes.
Irregular heartbeats,
interlaced whims,
entwined arms...

You smile.

Suddenly,
the world fades.
Suddenly,
stars align.

17 is charting a line.
I stretch, I hide, I lie,
yet I can’t stop it from
cutting right through my eyes.
Sigh.

Every morning,
at my best, I put on the coat
of reluctant smiles, responsibility, and maturity
to hide my very own incapabilities.
Usually, I wear it poorly,
sometimes I forget.

Inside,
a voice scratches my lungs:
It’s not my fault!
It’s not my fault
to procrastinate writing my article
till late Sunday night,
to leave the scallops unsalted
and the beans unevenly cut,
and to forget reading the labels
of your newly purchased shirt
before putting it in the dryer.
It really wasn’t my fault.
I was reckless,
But that’s not my fault––
At least… I thought so.

Then,
I realized that
not giving a care,
or “I didn’t know”
itself
is an irreparable guilt.

As a kid,
wearing the coat of responsibility
is a pride,
the complacency when being praised
for picking up a fork,
finishing a chapter of a book,
or putting away dishes.

As I grow up,
the coat I wear with little care
becomes an obligation.
Heavy,
but adults wear it so well;
tirelessly,
despite it’s 34 or 89 degrees out.

Now,
I must farewell the put-offs,
The “not-my-faults”:
my dear friends who have accompanied me
for 17 years and more to come,
my shortcut to bypass
the consequences and blame––
I must let you go,
for the next person who hears my excuses
will not say a word
before scratching me off the list
of opportunities I once though
that I deserve.

In the world of survivals the fittest,
animals wear their coats well,
and
they stride,
heading somewhere far.

I forgot the name
of my old town
and the familiar
dialogues
spoken by the
tooth-missing
oldtimers,
whose skin
was leathered
by the Sun.
Stories written
on their faces
got lost somewhere
on the alleys,
where peddlers
used to
trick kids
into buying
colorful cotton candy.
Grandma’s cat
had gobbled its
last can of sardine
long ago, yet
its languid yarn
still faintly lingers
in my memory.
I see old phantoms
wander between
gleaming skyscrapers
and highways,
where their
homes were
buried
underneath.