1

There is no one more vulnerable
than a lost child in the big city.
Clenched lips amplify
their throbbing heartbeat.
As their wide eyes wander,
they meet a stranger’s gaze.

Children need time
to define “Mature.”

2

I am an immigrant to this city.
My room is an aisle of Home Depot—
plastic shelves, stackable bins,
windows lined with plastic greens,
temporary housing plans,
layered with disposables,
with no real reason to stay.

3

I hide from this.
I avoid this.
I am 26.

My friends tell me,
“Your vulnerability is a prize,
not a weakness.”

I come seeking
to be open,
but not broken.
So I auction myself—
with six pictures,
three sentences,
my height.

4

The perfect meeting place
is one where she can leave
unannounced.

I am pure male potential,
packed into this Asian American caravan.
I could be:
a bag of useless worries,
an inconsiderate caricature,
or a psycho ax killer.

Mostly,
I am measured
against a lucid idea of perfection.

5

The true me serenades clouds.
He hikes mountain peaks,
dances at the sight of fruit,
skates aimlessly without a map.

He feels so far removed
from the common expectations.
He fears there is no one for him.

He is an anthology of fleeting adventures,
more unbound creature than man.

6

The tea shop lies south,
nestled among rows of small businesses.
Each storefront calls for attention,
each one hiding the others.

We choose tea.
I sit and wait.

7

A ballpoint pen traces shelves
in the suburban forest.

“I’m here. Where are you?”
“I’m inside.”
I inhale sharply,
inspect her face,
then look at anything but.

We confirm our expectations—
the profiles match up.

With little to say
and mouths filled with cotton,
we shuffle to the menu,
etched on a beaten plank.

8

Let it be known
that cornbread muffins
harmonize with tea.

They taste like our dialogue—
one bestows steeped ashes,
the other a sponge to absorb it.

Attentive sweetness.
We alternate roles,
becoming tea or cornbread.

8.5

When I was small,
I learned that communion—
wine and unleavened bread—
was a ceremony to remind us
of undeserved sacrifices
made for us,
the guilty sinners.

But today, I dream
of a world
where tea and cornbread
are holy instead.
We pour ourselves out on religion,
family, and values
until nightfall reaches its peak.

9

We assemble earrings
from Sculpey clay and tin foil.

10

“May I hold your hand?”
I never asked before.

Holding hers
feels like
what I’ve wished,
for a decade,
folding my hands
in prayer to God
should feel—

Simply because a starfish
probes the calluses on my palm,
exploring souvenirs of abuse.

These hands,
that never seeked to be anything more
than an assembly line,
are filled with ambrosia.

I thank my skin
for being capable of this pleasure.

11

I fill every page
with ideas
Each time we meet,
I want to offer.

12

a red box.

13

After brunch and rock climbing,
We strolled to Fort Greene.

“I have something to tell you,” she said,

and my heart sank.

I knew what those words meant,
but I kept hope, she might surprise me.

“I really like you,

but I’m also dating someone else.

And he’s asking for exclusivity.

It doesn’t mean

we wouldn’t have worked out.

I’ve treasured every moment with you.

But I met him earlier.

I feel torn. I want to cry.”

“Don’t cry. That’s understandable.
If that’s your choice,
I trust you are doing what’s right.”

A 2 hour heart to heart

Two lines stood out:
“I really want to keep you in my life,”
“You’re surprisingly mature.”

14

Felt disposable
Felt immobile
Felt low

Ending Excerpt

Hummingbirds are known for
pollinating and hovering in flight.

But for me,
they are most astonishing
for their fragility—
the smallest bird on Earth,
consuming so little,
surviving brutal winters,
yet shimmering with iridescence.

At that point,
nurturing the idea of us
felt like two paths:
freedom or nourishment,
flight or blossoms.

A part of me hovered there,
fixated on a fantasy,
wrapped in that pillar,
enclosed in a hug.

But the truth was,
she exited—
and so must I.