by Selena Zhang

We fell through the ceiling together.
it happens like this: You circle the room, spread your arms, I stand 
silently and air my face out to dry
upon the light of yours, the floorboards, ill
with self-deprecation splinter upwards, grasp in its dying breath
our hands and faces;
we fall.
as gravity claims us I 
turn my head 90 degrees, track your face for emotion
the sun blinds me; your face I have not yet unlocked
we finish descending, tumble and
sprawl in the meadow the ceiling shavings sprinkle 
the clearing
me, You, the broken floorboards.
as you rise they slash in waves off your skin
while mine cling; my pores are their respite; I am one with them;
it is now only me (the broken floorboards) and you
in the clearing. 
            the flowers sway in the wind: left, right, left
when I stand the sky begins to fall.
it squeezes me back down. I tell you to slow down,
nothing comes out 
but wood dust and a shaky breath, Were You Always This Tall?
I still cannot see your features,
discern your face,
The sun behind you shifts closer 
the meadow is unbearable: hot, bright, your face still a dream, the flowers
sway, my knees: green with grass, yours straight
and tall and strong.
The sky sets past your shoulders
Your head: beyond the exosphere, (a hopeless wish, I know nothing of it now)
the last thing I see is your sneakers, wreathed in flame
            (the Meadow mourns You with fire and I am the offering)
my tears come out as gasoline because who am I to deny You Your fiery farewell? 
I sob harder. The flames rise with my effort.
I think of the smoke stored in my lungs: precious, the
            closest I could ever hope to wish to come to sharing your breath
then
the sky buries me.

---

Selena Zhang is a high school student living in Montgomery County, Maryland. Her work has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers and is published/forthcoming in the WEIGHT Journal and Eunoia Review. She writes about memories, dreams, thoughts, and sometimes nothing at all.