Sevigne Pak ’18
Hands I have always washed my hands carefully, gathering an oasis in my palms before I let it wash over the walls. I have learned every turn of my wrist, felt the water fill the valleys of my knuckles, one after another. Warm always feels heavier than lukewarm. I know the liquid folds like lungs know air. — She watches the world through raindrops, head gently resting against the window. She finds ease in the way bluebells and street lights crawl down the glass in aimless streams of color. Her soul runs free with the water, drips down into my open palms, and finds crevices I have never known. — We met seven years and some infinities ago. I have learned where to find her laughter, tucked into the corner of her sweet lips; I know it from beginning to end, the way it rushes out and slows to a trickle.
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