I find it easy to be expressive but hard to be vulnerable. Even in my openness, there is something precise and calculating, what can be said and what needs to be obscured. If you listen closely, you can hear the ticking— slight recalibrations between metered breaths. I do not know how to turn this off.

When I am afraid of being vulnerable I tend to talk too much. I talk about things like pretty ceramic cups and the expression on strangers’ faces, light and fleeting things that feel buoyant, things I am easily taken by. I fill the space between us with these silly details.

Details like: A cafe at 11am: the couple in front of us. Crumpled napkins on a plate, the residue of a croissant around his mouth. Do you notice the woman who sits across from him? She carries her words like a mother bird cradling too many babies in her beak. Whenever she opens her mouth words cannot help but spill out.

Most people prefer to skim past these diversions so we can talk about something less trivial. But with you, I describe these things with a great amount of care because I know you like to roll every detail between your fingers, examine it under a light. I’ve never felt closer to you than like this: our heads bent close, relaying what we see to each other. Each story reveals a kind of devotion.

So I'll keep going and I'll tell you about the ducks I saw this morning, with round beaks and fuzzy green heads. How they flapped their wings and chased each other around a pond in tribeca.

I'll tell you about the stooped back of an old Asian woman, making sushi and chopping fried tofu into narrow strips, stirring it into my wonton soup. 4 foot 9 and she has cooked meals in this restaurant on valencia street for the last 40 years. Depending on the day, I find this heartbreaking or delightful.

I'll tell you about the time I saw a couple kissing outside the entrance to the subway at union square. She was wearing a headscarf, bright red with green ferns and he was wearing a black hoodie, the sleeves rolled up halfway. They were kissing and trying to part ways— their bodies moving further apart but their mouths still locked—I imagine she is running late for a train quickly arriving. There was something between them that made me pause—the way he touches her hair gently, the way she smiles at him with eyes bold and kind—I couldn’t help it, I had to look closer. I still feel reassured, knowing they exist and love each other, that they will continue to love in this world, somewhere.

There are more stories I could tell you. But I am tired of hiding what is hard to say.

I know it's intense, looking at people like this, trying to hold onto everything I see—the beat they tap their feet, how many times they suck air between their front teeth, the restlessness in lonely eyes. I see it as something astounding, that we can all be here, like this, not without pain and loss— rather in these cities full of ghosts, too in love with life to be haunted, still living with our heartstrings tethered and exposed like telephone lines, a place for birds to rest. I spend so much time meticulously recording the details of a stranger’s life at these brief intersections—to remind myself there are concrete things, little stones to slip into my pocket, so I can reach my hand in and pull out a palm full of gems, the next time I see you.

After you died, my jaw hurt for weeks. I couldn't feel anything but grief. When I think about you, there is an inconsolable sadness that pools in my chest. I walked around gathering stones until my pockets grew heavy, until I could sink into the earth. Letting go feels harder than bearing this weight.

I am angry at you for leaving me behind. Don't you see? You left and I am still in this world full of things beautiful and dying, and dying is a continuous action, as you continue to not hear these words I am saying, I am in continuous action.

You will never see the things I want to show you. A man wearing a bright yellow jacket and matching sunglasses. A woman wearing a heavy jade necklace, leopard print cuffs, mint colored shoes. These vibrant colors, this curated beauty. They are a couple: they walk slowly and they are laughing, her whole body is draped around him, like a living scarf.

Don't you see. There will always be things I want to show you. You left but you are still all-encompassing, you occupy the space that has no words, I still hold your heart in my mouth like it’s a baby bird, it spills out with every smile. Don't you see? I just want to see you again. That's what I would say, before I run out of time. I just want to see you again.

skin contact

stones in my pocket