Do you believe in miracles?

he once asked me

riding our bikes around the Han River

the chirping of grasshoppers ringing in our ears, a melody brewing

the wind so strong, like a quiet, yet somehow blaring beat of a drum, a bassoon playing


            let it sink in.


he likes the purple sunsets, reminding him of when he used to paint

his palette, messy, sudden bursts; no

soft, dulcet strokes of color


by now, both of us have outgrown those bikes

friday nights at the saloon became a casual weeknight ritual for him


lively sprints past the cobblestone road and the run-down bakery

and past the waterwheel back home became a peaceful saunter


my bike, left inside the garage, grew old and untouched

clamorous, thundering music diminished to a melodic serenade


he started to mind the long trip on his bike, so he began driving

keeping his head held high, his eyes forward, disregarding the orange sunsets


sleeping in too late to witness the sunrise

he had something else so valuable in his life that was distracting him


explosions of cayenne powder

lights lemon yellow

flickers of a neon granny smith apple

he sees things more sophisticated than sunsets every day now


    after dark.


he likes driving after the sun has finished its bath in the sea

disappearing to pure blackness overhead

when he realizes the wash of purple around him seems to be glowing  


traffic lights are his fireflies

twinkling beauties,

brighter than the stars

looking down at us

like the highlights in the pupils

of angels soaring above


i feel ethereal, he thinks


thrown into a void of so much gloom

but a paradox, look at the arrays of gleaming hues


is it old age? i ask him

is it acceptance?


a new shade of contact lenses, not for a new eye prescription

simply because he wanted it




if i could hope

before we never see each other again


and even though i know his legs aren’t as active before

i want to take our bikes back to the Han River


watch the stars tango on the low tide

vestiges of radiating ripples


taste his breath, not of his indulgences

but of herbaceous peony petals


hold his hand once again

let the intensity surround us with soliloquy


listen to Ailee’s “Heaven” on repeat

eyes wet, and suddenly we would be the center of the whole world




just a hope. a desire.

seems like the tints of red, yellow, and green took his memories with them

seems like the more i think about him, the more it hurts me




he is the best choice i have ever made.

so please,

take me to the dispersing lights

to the edge of the world

with him.


Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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