for my yin yin whom I miss dearly and have so many questions for.
i did not know you,
not in typical terms.
you were gone before
i even knew
before I knew
but i know you
in other ways.
in the ways your blood pumps
through my veins,
in the ways my feet
in the ways my father
remembers your cooking—
mixing what you knew with what you
in the ways you’d watch us splash in the pool from the kitchen window,
live fish awaiting it’s fate in the sink,
wok heated almost as hot as the summer sun
in the ways i remember
your imperfect laughter,
squeezed together so tightly
into an armchair,
broken record player to our left,
dreams of seeing me grow up to your right.
how does a poem make up for
I let myself
I don’t know if I
but if it means
the possibility of
then I will believe
They say to write about what we know.
I know love.
I own love.
I give love.
So, “write about love,” I think.
The love I know is raw.
Unfiltered by rationale,
held together by imperfect people
who are okay with being imperfect
The love I know is platonic.
A word that doesn’t do this love any sort of
because it always holds me together,
lifts me up,
is the love I take most for granted.
The love I know is familial.
The longest relationship I’ve ever known,
transcending bodies and time and borders.
The love I know is strength.
bounces off walls I try to contain them in.
The love I know is changing.
Quiet on some days
and loud on others;
whispers in gratitude and shouts out its joy.
The love I know is a love I haven’t found yet–
is waiting in a bookstore or a coffeeshop
or a computer screen.
is patient, because it’s what I lack.
is used to being put on hold,
because it knows I have a lot of love
The love I know is our friendship,
is living a life I never planned for;
is life itself;
is me figuring it out
over and over again.