You think I'm homesick for Hong Kong, but I think I'm homesick for you too.
And because of your art, the way you look for the good, your new tongue ring, and your new heart, I sometimes think I might still love you.
I miss hearing someone else lock the front door when it's late and I'm already in bed, wishing that I could listen to some rain, but listening to Strauss instead.
I can't make you whole.
You take the stairs two at a time, and you find peace in loneliness.
Don't forget I gave you your haircut.
Don't forget you gave me time.
Don't forget that in me you found rest.
I miss sleeping away the summers with blankets on trampolines, unafraid of what might be underneath.
Quiet and careful, while the starry scene you dreamt of would tempt me in my sleep.
You can't make me whole.
The night I understood you, I was under the godly gold and night-sky blue, lying on the roof, toes numb, fingers crossed toward the humble moon, saying,
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