I should write a poem about you, I thought. I wanted to lay your character bare so everyone could feel, from the back of their spines to the front of their chests through the warmth of their mouths and out through the tips of their teeth, the kindness I experience. I thought about the socks on my feet and the chocolate on my desk and how everything I know that is good about the world emanates from your persistent desire to reveal it to me. I started on conjuring unrefined imagery to try and place you in a gilded frame that I could hang from the heights of my ceiling, but then I got distracted by a story you were telling me about a mean Harvard professor bullying some poor Chinese restaurant owner. I thought, what more can I ask for, than for the privilege to write to you instead of only having the words to write about you. 

Iris Zhang, December14, edited May15.


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