This is what I want to remember—
the sound of feet splashing on the street as you
dash through every puddle, sneakers
kicking up a choreographed spray of scattered rain.
I want to tell you—this, this is how
I want to remember you,
I want to see you again (and again and again);
years and years from now when I look back
on our lives, I want to taste the damp scent of
your hair after a thunderstorm, the dark strands spilling over
your shoulders—I want to feel
the mischievous flash
of your gaze racing electric down my spine—
but when the rain ends and the rainbow arches up
to kiss the sky, bridging us from here to there—
it’s only a dream, something frail and fleeting as
the gold at the end of the colored curve. I want
to say it casually, like something that
anyone could say to anyone, like hello or
goodbye, I love you—but it’s so difficult to say. So
impossibly out of reach, like the image of your back
blurred in wetness, vanishing around a corner.




Emily Feng is from Seattle and studies English literature. She uses her art to imagine worlds that resist and dismantle the heteropatriarchy. Hot beverages, comfy chairs, and books all make her very happy.