Hannah Chung | Art by Kristin Zhao
you saw me ultraviolet that night.
I remember the heavy handed flashlight, the
stars in the dim of the city,
summer fog that dampened grass and thickened the air like oil.
I recall the dirty haze lifting over stripped buildings.
We sapped hours into minutes till sunrise came, watched
The red dew-sticky eyes of god
Rise from cliffs. they were
Bleached ashes, dawning across the water like doves.
How quickly will you forget our chilly summer, the summer your glass pupils
Reflected in every surface I saw? When you said you saw me ultraviolet,
The idea of it sat between us, hooked itself narrowly into your mouth
Like lies do; though you pursued it true.
It attached itself to my shadows, whispered my name
And it echoed sincere by season’s end.