After you leave, I watch
beauty sculpt the apocalypse. It is
cracking open. It is awake. It is your
dewberry jam on my kitchen counter. It is
every word you’ve ever uttered since the
fall of language, the
guttural sounds in your throat, the
harrowing of an empty vowel walking
into a dream. Pretend that I am
just a dream, floating. And when you
kiss that dream goodnight I’ll be
lost again, swallowed up with that
marmalade you spoon into your mouth; I’ll be
nothing to you anymore, sitting still
on your sofa; I’ll be next to you; I’ll be
painting Armageddon, watching it
quiver under my brushstrokes. When you
realize, I’ll have already trained it to
slip silently under my palms: palms that
turn back time. I’ll remember how only you could
understand the recipe. How you kept
violets by the pantry with the sugar. How you
would thumb through the fruits and
’xtract the ones that had gone bad. How
your heart was so full of lemon
zest that there was no room for me.
Zephyrs dance by the open window as
you mix the ingredients together. All is perfect,
‘xcept for the slight chill that comes with every
winter. That winter, when its cold claws
vanished into darkness. The rustling
umber of a rusting heart. The kin of a
tin-man left out in the snow, still
singing. I’ll compose a chorale for you, or a
requiem. I’ll watch the harmonies tumble like a
question into my stomach, my body
parting into each note. Split my skin into
octaves running parallels, until there’s
no method to find the itchings of a
melody. Until the choir blends together
like pieces of an orange peel. Until the silence
kills the violets. Until the lemon
juice stings my tongue. Until the fervor of flavor
ignites in spite. Until it stops. Until I
have to. I can’t stop the golden: My gifts
gold, my words gold, my palms gold, my
failed attempts at love gold, my everything. I try
each day to recreate your sunshine. The scents of
dawn from mason-jar mornings. I wash my hands.
Combine the fruits, the sugar. Bring it to a
boil. I’ll be here, waiting for you. Or for the
apocalypse. Whichever one comes first.
beauty sculpt the apocalypse. It is
cracking open. It is awake. It is your
dewberry jam on my kitchen counter. It is
every word you’ve ever uttered since the
fall of language, the
guttural sounds in your throat, the
harrowing of an empty vowel walking
into a dream. Pretend that I am
just a dream, floating. And when you
kiss that dream goodnight I’ll be
lost again, swallowed up with that
marmalade you spoon into your mouth; I’ll be
nothing to you anymore, sitting still
on your sofa; I’ll be next to you; I’ll be
painting Armageddon, watching it
quiver under my brushstrokes. When you
realize, I’ll have already trained it to
slip silently under my palms: palms that
turn back time. I’ll remember how only you could
understand the recipe. How you kept
violets by the pantry with the sugar. How you
would thumb through the fruits and
’xtract the ones that had gone bad. How
your heart was so full of lemon
zest that there was no room for me.
Zephyrs dance by the open window as
you mix the ingredients together. All is perfect,
‘xcept for the slight chill that comes with every
winter. That winter, when its cold claws
vanished into darkness. The rustling
umber of a rusting heart. The kin of a
tin-man left out in the snow, still
singing. I’ll compose a chorale for you, or a
requiem. I’ll watch the harmonies tumble like a
question into my stomach, my body
parting into each note. Split my skin into
octaves running parallels, until there’s
no method to find the itchings of a
melody. Until the choir blends together
like pieces of an orange peel. Until the silence
kills the violets. Until the lemon
juice stings my tongue. Until the fervor of flavor
ignites in spite. Until it stops. Until I
have to. I can’t stop the golden: My gifts
gold, my words gold, my palms gold, my
failed attempts at love gold, my everything. I try
each day to recreate your sunshine. The scents of
dawn from mason-jar mornings. I wash my hands.
Combine the fruits, the sugar. Bring it to a
boil. I’ll be here, waiting for you. Or for the
apocalypse. Whichever one comes first.
Linda Kong is a Chinese-American young writer from the Mid-Atlantic region. She loves bubble tea, card games, and the feel of warm clothes fresh out of the dryer. Find her online at lindakong.carrd.co or on Twitter @kinda_long.