Inhale. Exhale. Don’t forget to breathe because I know you tend to do that when your eyes drink in words.

I’ve decided to compile a list of adjectives that encapture you fully. You’ve never been to fond of my writing, you always told me that it makes you too sad - makes you want to cry. I hope this piece makes you want to smile.


1. Pink

Skin. Your skin pink after a long bath to calm your nerves. Warm, smooth, pink neck falling below rosy-colored cheeks. Lip pink after open-mouthed kisses, ears flushed after finding your own body embarrassing. “Never good enough for you,” you always say to me.

“Always good enough for me,” with your pretty hips stained pink and a pink peony threaded into dark locks. Pink petals scattered atop your body, against pale, translucent snow.

And people always ask me why pink is my favorite color.


2. Fat

Your heart is fat. Fat, fat, fat. Your heart is so fat that it needs to get its pants tailor-made to fit its rotundus belly that juts out with all the parts of me your heart has eaten. I’m afraid it’ll stop feeling hungry one day and leave me feeling full, leaving no areas for you to fill. You take, but you give. Don’t give too much or your heart will need new clothes.

Your touches are fat. Fat with feeling. As your small hands skitter along my body, I can feel your exhaustion, your happiness, your sadness. Fingers fat with unsaid words, unsaid “I feel upset today”s, unsaid “I’m so happy, I could die”s. You never speak too much, your brain must be fat as well, keeping all these words to yourself. How do you feel today? Shed some weight.


3. Bright

Bright eyes, calm down. Bright teeth, fade a bit. Bright cheeks, dark brows. Bright lights, dim your shine.

Always looking up where the stars can’t begin to counter your brightness. Take you away, and life would be lackluster, lack color. I’d have to create constellations from the pollution in the sky. Caelum, Dorado, Mensa, Orion, Reticulum, and Taurus. Let me connect the freckles on your back, make way for Do Kyungsoo.


4. Pure

Clean, fair, . Lips that beg to be kissed slowly, quickly; wash me over with innocent touches, allow me to bathe in the suds of your questions, sterilize me with your eyes that cleanse my soul of everything foul I’ve ever done.

Twenty-four carat, untouched derma that I gladly mark. Bridge together hyper-pigmented dots to draw our initials with: PCY + DKS. I wait for it to clear up before scratching lines to connect the speckles on the blanket that wraps around your muscles.


5. Quiet

Things you don’t do: open your mouth to say things that mean anything.

I feel that you’re devoid of any verbal feelings. It’s as if a part of your mind is telling you, “don’t”.

Don’t speak or people will get the wrong idea. Don’t the zipper that has fixated itself against the seam of your lips. Don’t let anybody know your heart is beating at 180 BPM in anger, confusion, love. No feelings, don’t, don’t, don’t.

Instead, you curl yourself up against my chest, wrap your arms around my waist, claw your way down my arms, scratch your feelings into my surface until I’m as red as you. Fuming, loving, overjoyed. Silence your breathing, you don’t think anyone wants to hear it. Keep your lips sealed as I try to make you feel better. Feel good. Feel bad. Tell me how you’re feeling.


6. Old

You are an old book with frayed edges. Some days, you come to me and your spine has cracked. I am left to bind the pages back together. You come to me with pages torn out, and I must replace them with new words, words that I think connect the unwritten storyline together. You come to me with pages bookmarked, new memories, new tricks you’ve learned.

I am scared of handling you too roughly. I am terrified that I will accidentally rip your pages. I am afraid I will dog-ear too intensely. Sharp creases do not soothe your mind. It’s odd how I treasure something old as if it is new, something I should’ve protected better in the first place, should’ve tucked into a slipcase. Now I fix you every evening. I gather your pages and tie you together. I glue your spine back in place.


7. Mine

No, I do not love you because you are mine. I love you because I am yours. Late into the night, when we are near rest, at times, I will ask you: “What am I?”

And you will respond with, “You are mine.”

When I tell you this, your eyes shine pink beneath dim moonlight. Sometimes, fat tears roll down your cheeks, leaving a bright trail. You cry diamonds. Pure and clear as day. Sniffles remain quiet, and everything old feels new. I tell you I am yours, and that you are mine.

I whisper the phrase over and over again against your flushed ears. “I am yours, you are mine.” You bury yourself deeper against me, underneath blankets and hidden behind pillows.

Listen, “I am yours, you are mine.” This is the only time I don’t want you to make a peep.

Don’t say a single thing until the phrase, “I am yours, you are mine.” has etched itself beneath your skin.

Feel my words rushing through your veins. “I am yours, you are mine.”

When your breathing has evened and you have grown tired of the phrase, I will continue my thoughts and say, “Do not forget that even on your worst day, there will be someone you can come home to. Someone that will love you unconditionally.”

You will not say anything. You are afraid of words. Afraid of love. Afraid of something. Your small frame shifts in my arms. The clock’s hands only meet twenty-two minutes a day, but we have all night. I keep you awake with my syntax.