●●●● preposterous 
●●●● how intense grief 
●●●● reminds you of 
●●●● games it is not: 
●● pac-man, 
●●● galaga, 
●●●● major havoc 
●●●● embarrassing 
●●●● there is a face 
●●●● to which grief cleaves: 
● mouth, 
● blip, 
● gulf, 
● whir, 
●●●● inaccurate 
●●●● the glitching face 
●●●● I fight to piece: 
● zip, 
● clasp, 
● jolt, 
● wrench, 
● twine, 
●●●●●●●●●● shouldn’t have opened my windows to you 
●●●●●●●●●● should’ve known pain pooled is more pain for both 
●●●●●●●●●● whichever of us wants to log off now 
●●●●●●●●●● must swallow two people’s worth of stardust 
●●●●●●●●●● sharing is the greediest thing I’ve done 
●●●●●●●●●● hate our wilting bodies that shine as bright 
●●●●●●●●●● on the bluescreen as they did in our shared 
●●● nebula  
●●● pathetic 
●●● how grief is 
●●● everything 
●●● but itself 
●●● every face 
●●● but your own 
●●●●● if we meet again 
●●●●● if the game restarts 
●●●●● save your burning ship 
●●●●● just your burning ship 
●●●●● don’t look back at mine

Eunice Lee is a poet and translator of Korean poetry. Her work can be found in The Margins, Asymptote, Honey Literary, The Shoutflower, The Shore, and more. She won the 2018 E. E. Cummings Society for the Academy of American Poets Prize, and is pursuing a Ph.D. in English at Harvard University. She tweets @euniceyoonalee.