LGBTQ+ Poem: Untitled: A loss for words, by Lareina Yuan

i. three years ago
[a disaster ignited at my fingertips]
the remnants, a trail of winding footprints in snow
each step growing farther farther still
straying from a past that never met its future
Time dwelled beneath a tree that withered
dissected by the cold-averse, transformed into flames

ii. four years ago
quarrels echoed in the Alps for two harsh fortnights
you & me – strangers wandering market stalls
lost from one another
with jangling postcard boxes from last century
birthstones/ butterfly specimens/ & all words that fell short
sleds flying through mud: cold air & hyperventilation
passion stretched across latitudes & longitudes
until, upon arrival, turned to only a dwarf star lit
[diffusion: net movement of particles from an area of high concentration to an area of lower concentration]
will the bell toll for the hearts?
will the waves of my mind stir your tempest?
will barren land turn over?
and lift my scarlet, creviced scabs
then rub in salt and sand

iii. five years ago
one brief encounter, three hours long
five breaths of secondhand smoke
wonton soup spilled on my Uniqlo flannel
our eyes twinkle with fireflies in Helsinki’s aurora glows
darkness often prevailed upon us, dear
but now, our arms fold up and knees buckle
softening Love’s weight, dulling Hate’s blades
but now, people and their literatures call this {ephemera}

iv. Doppelgänger
[you, are every natural disaster caused by the sins from my hands of greed]
Run my Pacifics ablaze
Wrap my insecurities in regrets’ hurricane
Drop down hailstorms on me like cavalry
on my lashes, chopping my boundaries
the quick souls always come unanchored and free
so I try to keep up and sprint. faster, faster
charging forward through my shattered wine bottles
left in your long-abandoned garage fridge on sale for five years
forgetting the pomegranate and its seeds, rotting in it too
forgetting the self-done piercings of each other
the blood trinkling a little down my joints
[Back to reality]
I imagine burning a hole through you by sight. watching you wash your palms, fingertips, front & back,
again & again, rubbing with soap that slips from your grasp, rinsing with pure water at a precise 45
Celsius, over & over, over & over. two arms dancing the waltz. on a trail of matcha green beanbags, our
shadows blurred. Hey, I wish your ears get inflamed and catch you unawares in your midnight slumbers.
See them with my vision attacking your dreams. Them like those shrunk, disheveled violets, nourishing
my stagnant mires.

v. th[(W)e]y are the widows who never won the race of winter solstice.