JUNE LIN
BEFORE SUNRISE
your girlfriend sleeps in till noon and i’ve always been up by eight,
usually earlier, a lifetime of panic trampling through my blood
when these south-facing windows get too bright,
always worried i’m late for something, always guilty
of something i haven’t done yet.
your girlfriend sleeps in till noon and i’m already up at six today,
so here we are, watching the sun rise through the blinds.
you’re chattering about the birds, the bees, the butterflies,
these little lives you could crush between your teeth
but choose not to conquer.
i’m wondering how to make you admit that i’m your favourite
of all these things you could destroy,
and then why i’m always trying to trick you into loving me.
whether it’s worth it, to be the best of the worthless,
the fragile, these tiny things that are so plentiful you don’t need
to waste time wanting them.
i used to love winning, you know.
i still do, i think, except i never seem to anymore.
i lie to make you feel better
and you wouldn’t do the same for me.
i know this. we know these things,
people who surrender for other people,
and we sit here anyway. i say things like
I’ve only ever wanted your hand on my shoulder, like
I would love you with all the lights on.
i want to. who doesn’t?
but in the afternoon there are other people sitting between us,
other problems, other versions of ourselves.
why can’t we be loved when the lights are on?
because the only time we are enough
ourselves to look at each other without flinching is now.
before sunrise i grab you by the shoulders,
by the neck, delicate fingers stretching to touch
something that will tell me we’re still living.
not that it matters; when the sun’s lazy fingers touch
the foot of the bed, i’ll be gone.
June Lin is a young poet. She loves practical fruits, like clementines and bananas.