What Remains in the Empty Glass
1.
Foolhardiness
In the evenings, we drank beer so sweet it stung the tip of the tongue, and in that hazy glow, we admired each other’s flaws and loved each other’s assets.
On the bus ride home, the moon kept chasing after us.
When your hair brushed the nape of my neck, it felt like I might see the whole universe out the window. Sometimes I held my breath because there wasn’t enough air to inhale.
Beneath the autumn sun, a halo shadowed over your hair, and in that light, I glimpsed the outline of my love. When my fluttering palm touched the back of your hand, perhaps you felt it too.
We spent each day doing foolish, ridiculous things, as if diving into the air itself.
But life was always too short, and the train of my dress too long.
So nothing was left behind.
In the end, all that remained in the empty cocktail glass was a single crushed olive.
2.
White Noise
Water had filled my ears.
A dull hum. That was all I could hear.
Sound always hovered in the air, scattered and shapeless.
In the struggle to gather those formless hooks, my ears creaked, and my heart trembled.
I often covered my ears to hear better.
Just as darkness melts into light, stillness was always hidden inside noise.
I was chasing the white noise left behind in the gaps of the atmosphere.
From me, came the sound of fingers combing through hair.
3.
The Architecture of Two
From the moment we are born, humans begin building homes between one another.
We hang doors, choose wallpaper, lay down tiles, all while looking each other in the face and smiling.
It takes quite some time to complete a house, so now and then, walking down the road, you might spot abandoned frames that are half-built, rusting here and there.
A boy built a house with a girl.
A small but beautiful house, shimmering with light.
Building it was hard work, exhausting at times, but even that exhaustion felt like a blessing to them. Because they were together every step of the way.
Once the house was complete, on rainy days and during snowstorms, they would fall asleep to the sound of water beads hitting the walls beneath the roof they shared.
4.
Red
I danced in a land bathed in the moonlight of despair.
On the rooftop of a darkened red-brick house, only the countless city lights shone down on me.
Then you asked me, "Would it be alright if I made the sun rise again for you?"
The sun had long stopped moving, and the stars of dawn drifted slowly across the sky, circling us. When your painted nails brushed against my skin, tight with the cold, it felt as if the ground beneath my feet had given way.
Your eyes, glowing red in the reflected light, met mine. And at some point, the olive that should have been in your martini had crumbled into my champagne glass instead.
Dusty sunlight, burning sunsets, dried acacia.
Every moment with you was red.
