Jessica Ding

As soon as he publishes his book, the house will smell of paint and tears as she lays out a fresh coat of writing material for him.

She spends her days half buried under a mountain of books; her meals uneaten and cold from the avalanche.

He spends his days wandering the house, the streets, the wild, searching for words that have yet to be discovered (or maybe just for an extra jelly donut).

She tapes love notes to the milk bottles; He puts flowers between each typewriter key.

They go to the symphony on Sundays: She scribbles away on her program; He is lost in the music.

He is in every book of hers, and she in every one of his. They do not understand each other, and yet they will always return each other’s library books, pencil sharpeners, and catchphrases.

Some days, they do not say anything. No typewriter keys click. The walls remain untouched.

They know that they do not understand everything. They know that is not what love is. They leave understanding things for words.

Sometimes words are not enough.

Life After Death

Jessica Ding

Many people are most afraid of death, But that’s not truly the case. They’re not quite afraid of death itself, But rather what slides into its place.

So perhaps you’re not afraid of dying, But your name plucked from the air. You’re afraid of the silence that surrounds something, When it’s just no longer there.

Maybe that fear comes from the fact, That you never know the lifespan of a sound. How many years after your body disappears, Your name will stick around.

Maybe your name will last generations, Echoing one final time, then never. And then the space it once filled is replaced, By the loss of it forever.

But perhaps there’s another way, For your name to live after your body fades. It’s why you write your name inside of books, And all you’ve ever made.

It’s a way of remembrance, In a world so prone to forget. The taste of who you are, Landing on the lips of someone you never met.