I hug trees with my languages. Those slow bodies of truth. I kiss books that simmer in action. Some words kiss me back. 

A teacher said ideograms are often stories. When vision dims at

[sunset 夕],

a name 名字 comes out of your mouth 口.

At birth,

[words 字]

arrive like a rooftop 宀 for the child 子.

If the sun is too bright

[to read 看],

you use your hand 手 to shelter your eyes 目.

Some creation myths are lost on me though: 

[one who…者]

extends from juicing sugar canes.

Who acts out of sweetness now? What if words sweep me away more often than housing me? Can’t we just stay close enough we don’t need to call each other? Speaking of things my hands can do…

I don’t need such figments now. I’m busy thinking about the sugar cane juice we had in Vietnam, the freshest from a street vendor you didn’t trust. 

Before I met you, language had never been this visceral. When you are gone, I grow inwards like bark, losing myself in the library of everything. 

I knew time never lost track of me the night I read Six Walks in the Fictional Woods. In a planetarium, Eco watched a recording of the night sky during his birth. He thought it was the best origin story one could die in.

I looked out the window from our cross-city sleeper bus. Beyond my upper bunk bed parallel yours, stars were unnumbered—like the dandruff on your punk t-shirts—above dense, dark trees.