Jae Lee
Solace Listen—the white whisk of sky from where you fell like the heavy weight of silence, the flat line of your descent, (the softest downfall,) the sea of people, the gray shorelines that go from building to building, and in the midst of them, your halo— none of this matters anymore. So come along, give this thing a meaning, a name, a story; We’re nothing but words traveling from one lip to another in the end. Look—your father’s coat hanging heavy like the air in his office, the smell of bourbon, your mother’s voice flowing as soft as laced cotton from the other room— none of this ever mattered. Now you’re thirty and you’ve balanced yourself on the tips of your polished shoes at the mouth of the longest staircase that leads to the throat of the darkest road, and it almost blinds you. You said, Let me take comfort in your green eyes and wood smoke hair. (The fireplace slept as you awoke and its glow smoothed out the planes of your face, skimmed down the hollows of your cheeks) and let the stars dotting your face drown me. After all, nothing could compare to her sunset eyes that make rivers run down the length of your dry throat, trickling down the surface of your bones, and pooling at your core. 6
