By: Maggie Emerson
Art by: Victoria Tan
Deltas of flesh formed by the tide of my tears
Salt reservoirs pool in my ears like sediment
I tend to lie down when I cry
Or maybe I tend to cry when I lie down
Hung on the door is the strangest portrait
We move in tandem, she and I
Her pupils stretch and deepen as she stares
I should recognize her
I feel her familiar despair.
On nights when sweat pours from my body
And the bedsheets coil around my limbs
She watches me thrash, slick and restless
She pierces my dreams with
Feather-light fingers encircling my wrist
Each time she leads me to the mountain’s base
My feet are bare, the ground coated in snow
I should feel the cold’s ache
I feel nothing.
Dense trees loom, circling us in shadows
She knows the path but I cannot fathom it
So I trail behind her willingly, desperately
Mottled daylight scatters in front of us
As we climb the sun descends
Bleeding into the ridges ahead each day
Her mouth splits into a soundless shriek
I should understand her fury
I feel only her sorrow.
An indigo shroud above us, stitched with stars
Perforated by the dark contours of unfamiliar peaks
Surrounding the summit I intimately know
Each night, the cliffs sing softly to us
A lone set of footprints trailing the two of us
She drifts past me, tears seeping from her eyes
Tears seeping from my own
I should stop her before she reaches the edge
I let us go.
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