by Amy Liu

Published in Issue No. 292 ~ September, 2021

the kettle whistles from the kitchen,

blue flame licking at the soot bottom.

it whines hungrily, needily, as the stove

crackles, laws of chemistry testified

with my fingers twisting in the hem

of your sweater in the brittle december air

as if i can tug your body into mine,

store it in between my hollow ribcage,

fill the want of a live pulsating heart with

your rocking back and forth between my

arms. i record your laugh in my mind

and replay it for hours – i try to imitate it,

but all that garbles out is a sob in minor 2nd

interval, my fingers clawing into the keyboard.

you tell me you love me with the supermarket

flowers you took the extra long route to buy,

sitting in the black morning, door ajar, palm on

my back post-nightmare, your pulse pounding

against my temple when you say it with your

whole chest, and when you leave i am only me,

half-whole without your hand in mine.

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Amy Liu is a soon-to-be high school student who has been writing ever since first grade. She has an affinity for bel canto, planetariums, and self-help books.