by Noami Lam
I dreamed I visited you in a big house with big windows. The backyard was green
and someone had planted wisteria and jasmine next to each other
so that when the wind blew it would smell like Sunday.
Your nails were cut short and it felt like something important was about to happen. The feeling in
my stomach was like I had done something bad, like when I switch lanes without checking my
blind spot. I tried to tell you a secret
but you thought you already knew it.
I am reading the black streaks on the porcelain bottom of the ashtray like they’ll tell me
something about you. Everything is smoked down to the filter
and I shake the tray a little so that they will spell out your name.
Some ash gets on my fingers and I wipe it away.
It sounds like windchimes when my skin rubs against the stucco.
You were blurry around the edges. I watched you from far away.
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Naomi Lam is a writer from California. She likes the computer and forgetting to take photos.