In reprise, we met in the backseat of a stranger's car,
knees pressed to the leather, tracing constellations on

window dust. The fluorescents smear your face into
something foreign & you spit granules in your palms

as birdseed. Brief, peeling girl. You should know by
now that distance is just a trick of the light. In December,

the sky flays back like a nectarine & I watch you stir
honey into chamomile, coin running over knuckles.

You tell me 你好可爱 in unfolded tones I choose to
ignore. Language is a house on fire, translating

ourselves into ruin. I learn that there's no such thing
as symmetry. In late night's condensation, you confess

something clear as tuning fork, splitting the room into
before and after. I almost ask—what did you sound like, exactly?

Which is the same as saying: This is not a homecoming.
Which is the same as saying: I always knew how to listen.