We bend like parentheses,

enclosing each other's asides.

Every adjustment of your lips mean

more words that I can extract

before you swallow them.

I measure your hand against mine.

Our heart lines overlap.

The fan, meanwhile,

turns out one more rotation.

You tap out morse code on my hips

and I drink lukewarm tap water

out of a wine glass, my upper lip

lingering on the dry rim as though

it were your mouth.

Our eyes exchange ellipses.

The wall is cold against my back.

Perhaps the sun comes up, but

Your blinds censor the light.

We wouldn't know.

The room is reduced to

the color of a kiwi’s skin.

Above the windows, bullets of firefly-

coloured light, just committed little vessels

glow obediently.

The sheets are discarded like huge

palm fronds on the rainforest floor.

And when we go later

into the world,

our fingers are symmetrical.

Our strides are parallel. The clouds

are as white as hanboks,

and we are shocked

by the insanity of breathing.

Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

For the last two years of high school, I attended an international boarding school. This is where I met my favorite person in existence. We were both too oblivious and foolish to talk about our ever-growing feelings sooner, but we finally did right as COVID-19 hit and our school decided to close down for the year.

This meant I was graduating – a month and a half before I was supposed to. This meant I had no idea when I would see her again – a month a half before we could attempt to make any plans.

On the day of my graduation, we broke up as we were getting dressed for the ceremony.

Editors: Rajeshwari T., Amshu V.

Photo Credits: Unsplash

Mithila Thambe

Humidity