Everything is a metaphor. Your name, bruised-steeped. Bodies flowering like bullet wounds, blue conjure and the grey smoke of morning cigarettes. We have been cut loose from our bones and into paper angels, relief on wall, hand against hand. Here, the first syllable of goodbye, turning morning sky to dusk. Here, the air like exhale. Junetide, and trees lining our limbs like fertility.
Paper tents candle-lit, the press of skin against cloth against skin, veils drawing to a close as we lean in. Chainsmoking, bodies braided in mid-touch. Here, in the dying light you tell me you love me and beneath my eyelids there is dawn. Home synonymous with cradle. you snonymous with me.
Amy Wang is a sophomore from California. She has been nationally recognized by Scholastic and was a mentee in Adroit's summer mentorship. In her free time, you can find her reading fanfiction. Her work is forthcoming in Twin Pies Literary and Ogma. You can find her on twitter at @amyj_wang.