Once,
I dreamt we ran out of lucky numbers to clasp onto, and fortune cookies to snap.
So we crossed fingers,
crossed each other's heartstrings with stars and cheap wine,
banned evil spirits with our middle fingers without middle names,
with the memories we learnt to love,
whilst blessing ourselves with our defects, and laboriously watching out for the cracks in sidewalks.
We called it a miracle every time we didn't fall through.
You were my winning racehorse,
forever the prized gamble,
the writer's ache for pressed typewriter keys and bullet ink;
the published return of insomnia incited poetry.
You were luck,
and i still feel like a broken mirror.
YOU ARE READING
Letters to Jessica
Tiểu Thuyết ChungBut as her eyes began to close And her temperature began to drop And the tears began to fall I did not say a word And as the black began to appear And the funeral began to start I found myself with a pen and paper I haven't stopped writing yet.
