Saffron City Press

Lucien

Hong Kong, China

i walk home between the cracks,

close to 
                                       how you feel when we slept till midnight,

counting down to mid-autumn 

                                                       as if we were a location, 
under lamplight 

the bed

in hopes of rejuvenation.

we called jesus 
                                                           to come as andromeda,

                                                                naming every sun 
we never had a star for

eight minutes 
                                                           after they burnt out.

stardust eating 
                                                                       stardust,

addiction to what is 
                                                                    crushable as
white powder,

the unbitten nails rebraiding

our molecular distance as
                                                                        ceilings 
strung

into our heads

have never been a human thing 
                                                                          is but 
                            an evolutionary phenomenon.

one day we can be homesickness again,

mercury reddening into 
                                                                           metal

                                                                             we,
wish for luck, 
                                                              the tipping point,

rubbing against each other 
                                                                        for heat

                                                 for us to do it all over again,

the corner of an eye where lantern light 
                                                                       burns and

remembers the blind spot 

connects us to our beliefs
                                                                      our brains

in an alternate reality, 
can 
                                                                            only 
exist in memory.

i run water 
                                            between my fingers and the shoelaces

to practise doing your hair

                                    when you plucked your milk teeth like relief

and smell the sky 

with
                                                                           skin,

the negative space 
                                                       unslipping into my mouth.

hug my knees into 
                                                          a three-leafed clover,

blessing until

                                                              something happens. 

Lucien is a summer child who loves the smell of candy stores because they are vintage. His works have been published in the Eunoia Review, Ink and Marrow, and Fleeting Daze among many others. He also reads for Aster Lit and the Arrowhead Review. You can find him on Instagram: @delucienal_