Entombed on a stretcher, you
Handed me an apple hairpin, which
Mom (accidentally) drained down the sink.
No one foresaw our weekly playdates–sitting on synthetic stools,
Baking honey-soaked cookies–
As a harbinger of separation.
Project work meant
Automatic partnership between us English prodigies.
Until you deserted your own place
Ghost. (You didn’t even give me the chance to ask for your phone number)
Daily text messages gradually converting themselves
Into languorous nothingness–
I open our chatroom, only
Once, I think I saw you in the library. I
But you did not wave back.
Immobile on bus rides, still
When you sat next to me,
I present a pastiche of people I know–
Used to (I forgot)–
Jessica Kim is a Korean-American writer who currently lives in Los Angeles, California. Having moved around countless times, her works are often inspired by her international experiences and identity. She is the co-editor of an international high-school literary magazine.