by Sida Li 

It happens as western Massachusetts bleeds into eastern New York. Lines are drawn on the car dashboard, dials on the radio assigned custody by the hour. After motel dinner we find ourselves entangled. Hair stuck in fingernails, chapped lips on chapped lips.

I like to study your form when you fall asleep: on back or side, legs curled or planked, position of hands in relation to skull, heart, earth, sky, mine. In the morning I forget. Where I left my tongue. You point to the violence between the motel ceiling cracks. We try to ignore its fault lines, and the implications of sharing ChapStick.

What was it you asked me last night when you borrowed my sweater— am I warm, or do you make me?

Ocean swallows Manhattan before we reach it.

***

Sida Li is currently an MBA (no, not MFA!) candidate at New York University. His work has appeared in the Columbia Journal, Hot Metal Bridge, Saint Ann’s Review, and Paper Darts, among others.