There was a point in our lives
where if I slit my throat, it was you who would bleed.
You say goodbye too often in autumn.
Tonight the last leaf fell off the tree beyond my bedroom window,
and I could hear the sound of branches aching for love to wrap
around their leaves like limbs.
It was three a.m. in the last stretch of May.
Springtime calls for heartbeat symphonies
and when we pressed our bodies together they coincided like
chords, like staccatos when I ran my hand down
Fog is one of the top reasons that drivers get killed each year.
In the backseat of my car we almost caused
the hundredth casualty,
but all I got were bruises in the shape of apologies
along my thighs.
There are certain people who leave scars when they go.
Tonight I cut my thumb while I was peeling an apple.
I thought of you.
— Shinji Moon