The taxonomy of the data around me
was corrupted by the brutalist
architecture of my last
name. Some thought I was masquerading
as a placeholder, always desirous of something
more viscous in the cup I sipped till the corner
of my lips soaked by day with butter
bled dirty red by night. There were no
kisses. There were no fingers
intertwined, no ice-cream. The length of my
jeans shrank magically exposing my shins
to the low dust of the city’s urgencies.
My toe rubbed against a new shoe
in the ancient language of first contact.
I stumbled on the road, fell beside the glance
of a baby in a pram. I said sorry
always thrice like a prayer. The moment
I made a mistake I wanted to go
home and drink water. The well
behind the field behind
my apartment remained
covered with a lid covered
with moss. Years ago, it used
to be semi-open. Inside its pitiless
hollow, had once echoed
my name in the voice of my
friend. Soon after, she left
the country to pursue
a masters degree.
We were both the same
age then. I turned five
years older last night.
Today, I scented my eyes
with the young smoke
of pink birthday candles.

This piece is part of the Summer 2026 issue.