My nephew writes his name with his tiny finger against the fogged car window. With his toothless grin he reads: 李欣陽. “陽 like in 太陽”, like in the sun. I smile at him, tell him to get some sleep on my shoulder.
Later that year, tipsy on lukewarm beer and the sky before the morning, you and I spilled mistakes on the white table cloths of our lives and forgave ourselves for every sin. Our skin turned into fur some nights. We let our hearts bloom into magnolias and ticking bombs, seep through gravel, let it stain each others fingers inky blue. We were transparent, watching boats tremble on still water. Transparent as in see-through as in there was a minute I saw the inside of your insides and you saw mine. We are twenty and twenty-one; I can’t say things like I want you in my life forever on the steps of the library or while I watch you throw bottles of white wine up onto the pavement or over the loudest music or into the scary quietness of the night you almost saw me cry. But I want you in my life forever. I put my head on your shoulder and think: “陽 like in 太陽”, like in the sun.
