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COHORT 2

A three-part writing experiment by Olympia, Kevin, and Esther

I.

Then I see her: roped in velvet 

yellow, the night’s glamour. Her cheeks

flushed from the stage’s rich 

romance. Even through the hum 

of the city streets, the roar 

of the taxis swelling like an orchestra,

the current of her voice carries to me.

A natural solo. Later she’ll call this the first

spark but I say it’s a chimera, enigma

seeped in periwinkle, static in my ears,

the first time I saw music 

personified, film reeling back and forth,

white glitter magnetic beneath her eyes.

II.

Trust, that slate of evening 

sun, obscures my sight. Every time 

our voices rise: the next great Broadway act. 

When I say trust, I mean ignoring

the names she whispers in her sleep.

When I say sight, I mean common

sense. Tell me how to write about 

love and I’ll tell you how the middle 

of a story never makes sense 

until you find your way to the end. 

I’m tired. I long for her to reopen

the door as the sky flattens into night.

III.

In autumn, yellow afternoons choke

melodies at the throat. We swap 

roles week by week. One battling 

the cello pegs. One watching 

the grey tabby on the street corner lean too far

sideways in the evening dim. One day

I am singing softly on her couch. The next,

she doesn't come back until midnight.

Her apartment ceiling fan whistles 

above me like an elegy. I hum along

alone in the October dark. In bed 

I hold the hours close to my mouth, each 

contrast — before/after/me/her/lover/lover

— longing to be blurred.