a lone suitcase is sitting in an airport.  

bare threads are holding together a coat.  

Careful, dear, you are smothering me with your looks.  

dangerous puzzles are storming off the book.  

endless calendar days and crossed-off months are slashing against the walls. 

forgiven but forgotten, a mosquito is plummeting off skin. 

Gondolas, tiptoeing like ballerinas into frosted edges, are seeing everything. 

hundreds of ice cubes, dumped like trash, are bleeding into the sand.  

Why must I pursue the rules when the wardens are sleeping?  

trampled yarns are forever swiveling in the muddy dirt.  

lanterns can’t cry; they are burning, not melting.  

trays of pork bulgogi are cooling, tart and thickly sliced: what in the frankenstein’s monster? my sketch of a cat is peeling paint off the wall—can it feel pain, too?  

   I am remembering the night I danced at the bow of the bridge, giggling like the world was

mine because back then, matching my feet into your footsteps, my world was you,  and back

              then, crocheting my fingers into yours, you were mine.