your fingerprints are fading away.
it’s been a while since we were created,
perhaps essence preceding existence,
perhaps vice versa,
but one thing is for certain:
we were children of gods
and we will not last as long.
aging, us two.
this is a shell and it is mortal.
this is a shell and i picked it
up at the beach last week,
the white sand slipping in between
the wrinkles of my fingers.
we were priestesses
living by feeling, living
virginally, by which i mean
we would not let gods sully us,
we believed we could live
untouched by the gods.
won’t pass any judgment
on our youthful selves.
sometimes we would
sit under the shade of the
willow trees near the pond—
the pond near your aunt’s—
and wonder
why we were born,
why we were living.
what is being and
what is time.
do you remember?
and every autumnal equinox
it rained when we were together.
and we danced and sang,
momentarily renewed by
the rain
and all the fruit it bears.
the rain is eternal.
the rain never forgets.
your memories are fading away.
and i find myself sometimes,
sitting on our wooden chair,
looking out the window, muttering,
if only we were younger.
if only we were younger.
Louise Kim is a Korean American student at the Horace Mann School in The Bronx, NY. Their writing has been published in a number of publications, including Et Cetera Magazine, Girls Right the World, and The Star Collective Zine, and is forthcoming in Ricochet Review. Her work has been nationally recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. In their free time, Louise enjoys practicing archery, studying French, developing her spiritual practice, and reading and writing.
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