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Bloom
for Rye
Ben Mengho Chuang
I used to believe that “Forever”
was overrated until you slid
into my life more smoothly than
the shadow of an arrow.
Here, right here.
A heavy, sweet weight
pressed deeply against
the ventricles and atriums
of my heart,
your presence pulsing within
me even when I’m alone,
such longing,
sugared and thirsty.
You feed my mind,
filling in all my thought (and
speech) bubbles before
I even open my mouth; you
dance in the most intimate
corners of my mind,
a razorblade distraction.
And here I am, running
on thin air, all the
musky moulds of depression
bleached and vacuumed
off my soul until I am
pure, like an icicle in
mid February. And from
here on it begins, a cataclysmic
nova of multiple bright
dawns all folded into one and
exploding into a fresh universe of
soft shadow and silver pinprick stars.