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It would be lovely to have you by my side,
to stand at the tassel-draped doorway
and watch you fumbling around,
figuring out what texture to bestow
on your cookies, what color of string lights
to hang on the wall, what presents
to give your friends when suddenly the sky
is just the right shade of red. I thought of you
when I was still with you, before we
parted, before I found those thoughts to be
just the right shade of red. Let me
tell you, imaginary epislatory you,
that I haven’t felt so glad, so unburdened—
almost like a bear peeking out
of a den in the rain-warmed earth to find
burgeoning warbler springtime—ever since
I last sat with you. I’m not sure if I am
drawn to you, so to speak, but my memory
likes to draw me a sketch of improbable you,
and I figure it would be lovely to have you near,
to see you daily, albeit at a better time.
Nghề riêng nhớ ít tưởng nhiều, they say,
but unlike them, I’m not yet desirous to be
near you, so to speak, for I am at sea,
and you’re in the landlocked desert, both of us
fumbling with our own things, baking
our own cookies, hanging our own
string lights, and everything is just
the wrong shade of red. It would be lovely
to have you by my side, in a future far, far
ahead of me and you, the way
the sea and the desert are both far
from the bear’s little den. I will think of you
a little bit every day, every week, every
waxing moon, maybe sometimes wondering
if there’ll ever be a right shade of red.