Crippling conversations, stale words taste sour 
Examen every corner of the cafe, occasionally outlining your features 
The strand of hair poking out of your head, refusing to remain still no matter how many times you smooth it down, taunts me 

I can’t fixate on the memoirs you’re illustrating with your hands, wiggling around as if I can’t envision what a classroom looks like 
It’s not that you’re not interesting, I promise you
Your anecdotes about your high school friends amuse me,
It’s just that I had pictured you a bit different 
A bit broader?

You seem too frail to cradle my trauma, and I wonder if that strand of hair would jab my mother’s eyes 
The letters of your name are foreign to my ancestors, how would I translate our interactions? 
As much as I pray for your pieces to fit mine, I can’t help but focus on the missing parts 
The ones that don’t reside in you.
Do you understand what happens to boys like you?

Your voice dims, welding with the grey walls 
I struggle to yank myself back to this moment
Tugging at the back of my mind, 
My guardian angels bow in pity 

Privileged boys get devoured at my house, so how will you guard yourself from my parents?
How would you brush off my mother’s glares and my father’s disappointment
I can’t blame them, for not seeing you again
I mean, can you blame me? 

I tap the corner of the table, harmonizing with your clock ticking 
I had convinced myself that things do evolve 
Perhaps if I squint hard enough, I could bend your eyes 
so they echo mine
pile my memories with you, even if they get swept under our pillow 
How would I wake up to the sight of my abuser, my colonizer
Settling on my grandmother’s embroidered linens 
As she wails from heaven 

You call my name, snap your fingers 
Strip me from my thoughts 
“are you okay?”
I don’t know what to tell you, it tastes bland
You. 
It tastes so bitter. 

Do you know what happens to boys like you?
Their heads mount the walls of my family home, 
a constant memento of my lapse 
and desire denies advocating for you, or sparing you
Your features torment my parents’ desires, 
as they roam my statue 
pleading for guidance 

I love you, I really do. 
(I don’t)
I just think we should see other people.