thin light unraveled you. as the snow
fell on the train tracks, i stood in close
opening and gently pressed cheek
to ground so i could hear your breathing
and the boy moving from one full room
to the other while chasing his friend up
the staircase – a body that flitted like
moon phases and surrender. i thought of
that morning you threw confetti as the
drips of icing trailed down his face,
how we called this friendship before
dislocation when our limbs slumped over
the couch in threes while the others
watched over us, waiting for the candle
to shrink its glow. two miles into the
swelling frost: your silhouettes flash
in a supercut, like an unmarked border
or a door to the interior that keep us
going through the same hallway,
the seats we share in proximity on
the train as our bodies domesticate
distance and the betrayal of warmth.
we keep running and remembering,
those visits to the laundromat where
clothes left your back and got thrown
into the ruff like everything else before.
the breeze is closing shut but i picture
us walking to what was disposed: a tree
with ribbons of ice still behind from the
waning winter, together and glancing
the shoes dangling from the branch
like misplaced tapestry. i miss you
and that ephemeral belonging.
Tess Lee is a jewish queer poet based in Gainesville, Florida and is currently Editor-in-Chief of Spill Queer Arts Magazine. Their work reflects the violence and beauty of nostalgia. They enjoy astrology and senseless internet shopping during their free time.