quantum superposition by Glenda Fu

saturday afternoon
we move the furniture out
from these four walls
our trace—laughter, tears, soft whispers
still echo, from edge to edge.

we only leave
a roll of blue yarn, untouched on the windowsill
for the scarf i never made you.

i lean against the door
to this empty room and watch
the branches sway in mourning.
they call to us, but we won’t be here.

neither you, nor i
will be here.

the rain stopped
i’m holding your head in my arms
elbow against the mattress in the back.
we’re resting a little longer
before we go.
go where;
who knows?

what i know is
you’re here in my arms.

and here, our love rests.
in sleep or in death.
in end or beginning,
presence or absence,
it rests.

i hold my breath in this moment
where it rests.
in the indefinite,
we are infinite.

so let me stay here,
make a frail home of this moment
where we still,
and even still,

i breathe out to say
i love you
and it flies
set free;

— from Juniper Volume 6, Issue 1