Ivi Hua

INTERLUDE II

after Richard Siken, after C. G.

here is a memory: you’re on a plane & you are not running away 
from anything. it is a miracle. you can call this half-earned. outside, 
the air drowns out all else. the clouds spiral into refraction, their light tender.
there is no landing in sight. you love this moment. full of squeezed spaces
& quiet cries, it loves you back. but here is the hard part:
the montage always ends. everything you want for will pass without a proper
goodbye. the memory reel splinters. you do not know how
to live with this— you are so used to wanting things, so inexperienced with actually
having them. sand slipping through your hands, your legs like a foal’s. inevitably,
the plane will land & everyone else will leave. you will stand in the aftermath, nothing
left to hold. maybe the pain will kill me, you think. more likely the self-destruction.
more likely the sleepless nights, the denial. you’re always turning in circles. i need you
to admit it: you’re afraid of what happens when you reach the end. 
i’m sorry. i am too. this leaving wrecks me beyond measure.