gray

Artwork by Michelle Dong, staff artist

in my dreams, you taste like

concrete and shaky crosswalks.

my feet are caught, tangled in paper cranes. perhaps we are star-crossed,

not meant to cross the lines

on each other’s palms. perhaps,

in our palms, we line

each paper house with fire.

when you speak, paper cuts sting

like fire. i try to water down beehives, but nothing stings

harder than static on the phone. you

meet my eyes, but hold them plainly, like an insubstantial metaphor.

you see that my hands are cold. as usual,

i am thinking

about how yours are warm. perhaps

i am everything that they want. perhaps

you do not want me. traffic lights blink, christmas lights

shrink in your eyes. november,

again and again and again.