the way when you are in bed you / the room merge/s into every other room / bed you have slept in. you gaze with bleary eyes at the empty pillow beside you, painted soft / grey by the night’s affection, and you could be / are in your childhood bedroom / college bunk / first / second / third / last apartments. 

you always prefer to sleep with the curtains left open like this; the light slips across time / space, makes you forget who you are / reminds you who you have always been: 


objects in a room: 

★ window — a portal to other times / ages / wakings 

★ tinkling noises — the lunch bell / opening your front door to your waiting dog / water glass breaking when you sweep it off the bed stand 

★ dresser — potpourri of colors / shapeless insecurity / asymptotic potential 

★ sunrise / sunset — soft / grey / sweet / aching 


window, other ages 

moon / sun / star airs through the glass against the static of the cosmic microwave background. it’s divine. 

ambience flickers, a tv screen glowing dimly in the recesses of an empty living room. somebody in the capsule above, testing the channels. 


sunrise, soft and aching 

the danger / critical moment passed. an hour slid into the mailbox retrieved / opened / signed.


Emily O Liu (she / her) spends a lot of time dissociating, writing long sentences, and wishing she were a better driver. She loves languages, maj7 chords, wearing colors; is a little obsessed with windows (aka portals to other dimensions) and sparkling drinks. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in HAD, Gone Lawn, Poetry Lab Shanghai, and Red Ogre Review. She is a San Diego native and Fulbrighter teaching English in Taiwan, tweeting @hintermelon.