while our mirrors make their excuses
Quinn Lui
the walls trade solidity to the summer-air & before i notice
i have already drifted into your body, or you into mine. light
splinters uneven off the ripple of my breastbone, the curve
of your spine. i could spend a timelessness marvelling
at how heavy my name sits on your tongue, the toxic-sweet
heat of it, & maybe i do. our reflection smiles sharper
than either of us but i always wanted to ask you how it felt
with my teeth in your wrist, my breathing slowed to the drip
of your heartbeat. i didn’t mean to stop listening. it’s just
so easy to lose track of anything but the insect-shrill
in my ears, how they rise as a dark-shining fog in my eyes
every time i stand. & i’m not lying anymore. this is as true
as everything you ever said about distant castles, shadow-
thrones to bear my name. there is no better ruin to leave
than one with rooms that will only gather the dust of dreams
no longer imagined. someone i think i used to love
knows how to breathe liquid. the last time i missed the sunrise,
the air turned all steam & accusation, & even dizzy with
sleeplessness, the glass-smooth shell between me & the sky
sharpened the sunlight to laser-focus. when i say hollow
i never mean empty. the honey-weighted air folded my voice
far from my throat long ago but i can still hear you crying
no matter how many rooms are in the way.
Quinn Lui is a Chinese-Canadian student whose work has appeared in Occulum, Synaesthesia Magazine, Half Mystic, and elsewhere. They are the author of the micro-chapbook teething season for new skin (L’Éphémère Review, 2018). You can find them @flowercryptid on Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram, or wherever the moon is brightest.