by Yong Takahashi
I told myself I wanted to be on the same page
but I was reading at the beginning of the novel
and she was far ahead, almost nearly at the end.
We somehow missed each other in between.
I would always see her reading from our book
as I laughed at the time she spent with stories
I thought were already lived and forgotten.
One day, she set aside the worn volume as
it collected dust, mildewing on the nightstand.
I tried to find the spot where she left off but
her tears had melted the messages left behind.
The ink smudged my fingers and the traces of
our link dissolved, only leaving the realization
I couldn’t find her again.