shadows in summer by Olivia Hu

last summer, sunlight spilled through
window panes and formed two shadows of
us,  the outlines smoothing like butter.
i let the warmth of the streaks fill you
before i attempted myself, empty against empty
trying to build up a fortress.
the sillage of lavenders waft through the air
tinging pink noses, the sweetness quenching our
desperation. you pointed at the sky and showed
me a star, the twinkle so celestial it did not blend
in the hue of sunlight. maybe it just got lost
you said, and i nodded, watching the colors clash
like knives against the honeyed clouds. outside,
a pig-tailed girl stood cold, shivering under the
scorch of daylight. she clutched a body of sunset
bruises and banded hues and called it her own, tried
to find shadows in light because they didn’t blind
her impervious eyes. she picked deformed flowers
and made a crown, kissed the lonesome star with
her tears and said farewell like it was water. when
she skipped back home, the sunlight was still
seeping towards us, but this time our outlines
were hard, sharp-edged and unforgiving.

 

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