Once, my  heart  thumped a beat  the size of Jupiter,  startling the
sea  into a  tsunami.  I was the  only person awake  which meant I
could be anything I wanted to be. I became a bird and pricked the
sky  open   with  my   beak.  The   bruise   oozed   into  a  flurry   of
flamingo  hues.  I  wanted  to  witness  it  only  with you.  You were
eating a macaron  on the  moon the first time  that I saw  you. The
memory  expands  around  me  like  a  bubble.  I   exhale  from my
mouth  to pop it.  It  leaves my  throat  clogged  like  a soapy drain.
Crying is  an extension of language.  It  keeps raining in my  room.
It  keeps  raining  at the beach.  Both  rains  are different.  As if the
room   and  the   beach   are   separate  countries.   Your  car  was  a
country   where  we  were   the   only  citizens.   We   were  also  the
government  so we could  choose  what songs played on the stereo.
We   played  the   same  song   twenty-seven  times.   Your  memory
nibbles  at  my  heart  like a  pensive rat.  My  heart  is  a punctured
organ  and  no  matter  how  hard  I  try  to  tape  it   back,   no  beat
becomes  music.  Your grip  on  the  steering  wheel  was sturdy  yet
gentle, as if you were holding a glass object.  A single sudden brake
could  have  shattered the universe  that  we  had  built  inside from
scratch.   We   were   bad    mechanics   with   worn    out   tools   too
stubborn  to accept  our cluelessness.  Unrequited  hope is  crueller
than unrequited  love.  We  knew  exactly  how to  make  each other
laugh.   That  was  the  biggest  problem.   Your   laughter   is  tucked 
between   my   lungs    like   flowers   in  a  book.    Thunder   refuses
to rumble you away. My sobs arrive small, like commas, sometimes
sprawling  into  wails.  I call  them  ellipsis.  You  left  in  April.  That
evening,    there   was   a   downpour.   You    looked  like   you   were
standing  on  the  other  side of a foggy window.  That is what falling
out  of  love  looks  like.  Nobody   knows   what  the  end  of a  poem
looks  like. Time  is an expanse of your absence.  It is a field where I
stand  like a  helpless  scarecrow  trying  to  tell  the birds  terrifying
them  was  not  my idea.  I have  stopped  calling  April eleven  other
names.  On  my  way  to   the  beach,  I  cover  your  memory  with  a
raincoat.  The  raincoat  has  flowers  on it.  Memory  stays  safe  but
the   flowers  get  drenched. I hang  them  on the  clothesline next to
your   name.    I    watch   your   absence    sunbathe.  I   run   around
memory’s   maze   like   a  crazy  circus   clown.   In   the  tug  of  war
between   love  and  geography, the  latter  always  wins.   I press  an
abandoned  clam against my wrist;  wait till it  becomes heavy  with
the  weight of my pulse.  Bury it under sand  like a seed.  By April, it
will  grow  into  a plant full  of  flowers  that  will  know all  the right
ways  to  love.  I  will  name  her  Hope.  I  collide  into  the  horizon.