The morning after you sighed
my name back into my skin,
haze tugged us across the border
in a grey car. We drove through
softened sky. I felt endless
my sides unfolding into asphalt,
highways after highways smearing
indeterminate horizons. World
stirring in a cloudy bell jar.
All this soot from stubbed out
trees even inches away from you,
I am lost. In the windscreen,
your gaze flickers with ghosts
of faraway forests skimming
febrile earth. Already I have slipped
from my bearings how scarce the signs
that line this road we travel on. But
each time you turn to me, you lightly
sketch me out from shadow.
Ahead, the sky exhales, shifting its pall
a restlessness reminiscent of blue.
By Amanda ChongQLRS Vol. 15 No. 1 Jan 2016