i breathe lifetimes | vkook

1981

19 decemeber .

delicate azalea,

     your mother may call you joshua. in school, you may be josh. your neighbors may offer a simpler term, jay. but to me you are . . . the skies behind silkscreens at sundown, pink peppered with glossy pearl clouds. you are 'my' and an endless array of loving syllables. you are 'mine'. and 'everything'.

     a pucker of rambunctious cherry lips. a graceful smack preceeding perfect peppers on my neck.

     we meet behind a wall of trees aiming for the heavens. two onlookers incapable of interference accompany us, the firealarm and rear school bell. there are silent eyes of woodland ghosts bathing us both in their curiosity. your shadow and mine, reinacting a guileless play against the dirt through sunshine's guidance.

     your memory's always a blur. thank god mine is not. because i hold onto every thread of that moment, how your sixteen-year-old self loved the sixteen-year-old me. with our impetuous gestures and drunk kisses shared in the schoolyard. two souls crafted from the same fruit —adam and adonis.

      you leave me in tangles. my stomach rages like a forest fire. my heart's always ablaze and i am always anxious for when you will have to depart.

     it continues on. your voice rings through my mind. if you can't find me, don't worry. 'cause i know i will. you say.

i know, i know. . . i know this so well. but i can't help it. was i wrong to have loved you for so long?

—zinnia