Author’s Note: I took on a casual tone for this prompt because my works lately have mostly been lyrical reflections and I wanted to indulge on a topic that has been weighing my mind lately. I’m not completely satisfied with this piece so I’ll be making edits later.


To my weird, but nice coworker:

It is with a heavy heart that I bid you farewell, my fellow musical lover, my occasional Tai Chi partner, and my cubicle mate, a cubicle known for its silence punctured only by our “good mornings” and “good byes” because two introverted people forced to sit together are like galaxies that never collide. I suspect there’s a black hole between us that spagettified any conversation that lasted more than five minutes.    

Ever since you introduced yourself to me (a young, anxiety driven, and jet lagged teacher) as “Hi, I’m really useless,” I was put at ease.

“Oh no. I sit next to the weird one,” I thought.  

It wasn’t exactly a “You had me at hello,” moment, but I suppose our atoms were near one another when the universe big banged itself into existence because I was instantly drawn to you. This gravitational pull doesn’t tug at me often. The last time was light years ago, during freshmen year of college, where within five minutes of meeting my fellow suite mate, we professed our love for one another and fell into one another’s orbits.   

I know. Despite sitting next to one another for a year, I did not profess my love for you nor did we even become close friends. Hell, I didn’t even talk to you on most days as I fell into other gravitational pulls (namely the other single women in our department) and consciously avoided falling into yours. I didn’t need another cosmos of contradictions entering my orbit no matter how intriguing it is to astronomically map the inner workings of a prospective and knowledgable Catholic priest holding a Masters in sexual perversion.

You had kind, quiet eyes, but a loud and reckless mouth. I liked that collision of contradictions the most.

But we had our moments. They were not of impacts but of passings where we were shooting stars across each other’s horizons. The ball of clay you gave me on my first day of work is still being used to hold onto all my rubber bands. The post it notes I wrote to you complementing your singing or thanking you for the random sweets you gave me are in the treasure chest on your desk. We pushed and pulled one another in Tai Chi classes. We even wandered the Night Festival together and I remember my amusement at its ironic name because we were not celebrating the night, but rather the lights that were able to shine, blaze and burn against the dark backdrop.

In those moments where our atoms simply settled near one another, neither touching nor treading, I was a less lonely galaxy floating through this life. 

So thanks, weird but nice coworker.  

Oh. By the by, I’m sorry if I was awkwardly cold and silent around you like the vacuum of space it was because I had a dumb crush on you and I didn’t want you to find out although in hindsight you have the awareness of a cruising meteor so there was nothing to fear in the first place.

Ha. Haha. 


Your nice but weird coworker.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Yin to My Yang.”


Handwritten Letters

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Handwritten.”

Lovingly lined Ls and sensitively scrawled S’s. Curvy Cs and arching As.

By my hand, these letters form a straight, uniform line across a white fields of paper, are meticulously checked for proper legibility, and are marshaled into order for one purpose:

To become a force against Death.

I handwrite my Letters. It is a four hour process. Two hours invested into the rough draft, cut, paste, write, erase on a word document. Then another two hours handwriting what is on screen onto stationary.

In those four hours, I am reciting a magical incantation. A spell to suspend time. To create a space that would allow me to capture a lifetime found in a moment in the minutes it would take to reach the last sentence, the last period of that letter.

I ground the fluid subjectivity of remembrance into the more concrete, if flawed, form of words.

I form a third eye while hand writing these letters. Its gaze is focused on the receiver because while my spells do not require strands of their hair, they do require DNA: the comforting weight of their hand upon my shoulder becomes the pressure of my pen. Their lopsided smile wrought in moments of confused laughter transforms into my tilting Ts.

My hand writes to embody it all and transform these letters into spells of courage. Of fortitude. Of strength.

For them.

And for me, they are spells against death for even if I have passed on, am no longer of the physical world, a vestige of me can still be found in lovingly lined Ls and sensitively scrawled S’s.

Take Me Beyond the Moon

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Take Me to the Moon.”

I will take my love beyond the initial flights into infinity or the first trip into free falling. Beyond the tentative touches on our pulsing wrists where delicious tension arrested our fingers above a whisper’s caress. Beyond the spark of discovering the mold of your lips against mine.

My love will go beyond the thrill of landing on the moon and solidify into the enduring consistency of elliptical orbit.

Our fifty sixth meal together—where you shoveled your mushrooms on my plate and I took your green peas without remorse—will become the fifty seventh.

And I will look forward to day two hundred and ten of opening my eyes to the stubborn cowlicks of your hair only to be serenaded by a yawn as you seek refuge in the crook of my neck.

My love will reach the three hundredth quick kiss at the door
And still weave circles across your back after your thirty fifth nightmare.
My love will dry the thousandth tear you will cry
And survive our sixth or sixtieth fight.

My love will not die once for you
but will live as a physical constant
that governs each of my breathes
to be testimony to your dimensional form.

I will be there for all the phases of your life should the tide gently brush against your feet or threaten to swallow you whole.

Updated 20th Sep: After posting this piece, I was still dissatisfied with some of the vague imagery. I decided to tie in physics and the idea of consistency in the second to last part. We tend to be enticed by grand gestures of love such as flying to the moon, but I think love’s foundation is based on the simple and constant things we do.