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.