We're Going to Be Friends
As the sun set, your living room coalesced into a murky shade of brown. The cabinet handles and the wall trim and everything dissolved along with it, even your figure. In the abundant absence, moonlight spilled from the moon river and tiptoed cool onto the mahogany floorboards. Here and there, bubble wrap perching from the edge of cardboard boxes gleamed like pearls. By then our talk had drowned, too. I only felt the occasional canned laughter or grave infomercial from your tv.
ladles of milk
just enough light to feel
Before, I had only seen the golden faucets, meringue marble countertops, and showers tiled in nebuchadnezzar blue. But you never enjoyed cleaning. Your couch cushions hid in their pores huffs of expired yellow, sticky and dense. When the darkness finally hit me, I blinked to dilate my eyes and saw that you had left. Just a lingering staleness proved you had ever been there in the first place. I remained on your couch crimping bubble wrap, shredding through pops while wishing you'd come back.
the cricket chirps reverberate
On the cold bus home, we shared my fuzzy blanket. Fuzzy like you could draw stick figures in the fluff. Fuzzy like you could rub it against a balloon and its hairs would stick. Curled and cozy, I took a whiff of the yellow fur. It was sour like some old people. Sour like cigarette breath. By all means the smell should have been sickening, but this type of opportunity was new to me so I didn’t mind. I cared about jagged cracks in the leathery vinyl seats that scraped my scalp. I cared about the window pane’s stiff pummeling of my skull’s extrusions. Every time the bus made a sharp turn, I clutched the seat ahead and tugged hard so as to not throw myself onto her. We shared headphones. She played buttery folk songs. Buttery like the expanses of crop and pasture we passed. Buttery like echoey pads and white noise that nearly drowned me. Gradually, she put her head on my shoulder and I strained my neck to complete the symmetry.
dirt polished away
barbeque and fudge
from the buck-toothed haven
Andrew Su is a high school senior from Atlanta, Georgia. He frequently writes for his school poetry magazine and newspaper, and his work has been commended by Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. His favorite genres are haiku, haibun, and other short-form poetry. In addition to writing, Andrew also loves producing, playing, and listening to music.