Daybreak

Do you believe in miracles?

he once asked me

riding our bikes around the Han River

the chirping of grasshoppers ringing in our ears, a melody brewing

the wind so strong, like a quiet, yet somehow blaring beat of a drum, a bassoon playing

 

            let it sink in.

 

he likes the purple sunsets, reminding him of when he used to paint

his palette, messy, sudden bursts; no

soft, dulcet strokes of color

 

by now, both of us have outgrown those bikes

friday nights at the saloon became a casual weeknight ritual for him

 

lively sprints past the cobblestone road and the run-down bakery

and past the waterwheel back home became a peaceful saunter

 

my bike, left inside the garage, grew old and untouched

clamorous, thundering music diminished to a melodic serenade

 

he started to mind the long trip on his bike, so he began driving

keeping his head held high, his eyes forward, disregarding the orange sunsets

 

sleeping in too late to witness the sunrise

he had something else so valuable in his life that was distracting him

 

explosions of cayenne powder

lights lemon yellow

flickers of a neon granny smith apple

he sees things more sophisticated than sunsets every day now

 

    after dark.

 

he likes driving after the sun has finished its bath in the sea

disappearing to pure blackness overhead

when he realizes the wash of purple around him seems to be glowing  

 

traffic lights are his fireflies

twinkling beauties,

brighter than the stars

looking down at us

like the highlights in the pupils

of angels soaring above

 

i feel ethereal, he thinks

 

thrown into a void of so much gloom

but a paradox, look at the arrays of gleaming hues

 

is it old age? i ask him

is it acceptance?

 

a new shade of contact lenses, not for a new eye prescription

simply because he wanted it

 

    but.

 

if i could hope

before we never see each other again

 

and even though i know his legs aren’t as active before

i want to take our bikes back to the Han River

 

watch the stars tango on the low tide

vestiges of radiating ripples

 

taste his breath, not of his indulgences

but of herbaceous peony petals

 

hold his hand once again

let the intensity surround us with soliloquy

 

listen to Ailee’s “Heaven” on repeat

eyes wet, and suddenly we would be the center of the whole world

 

    only.

 

just a hope. a desire.

seems like the tints of red, yellow, and green took his memories with them

seems like the more i think about him, the more it hurts me

 

    yet.

 

he is the best choice i have ever made.

so please,

take me to the dispersing lights

to the edge of the world

with him.

 

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