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Snigdha Garud and T.R. San


1 year later and you’re still here, tapping on
my window incessantly. each raindrop
whispers your seasmell-thick voice, memory

wrapping me tightly in all that we were. again, i
mistake rainfume for our turbulent sea and wring
my heart dry to cry saltpond onto your name.

the radio at its most dispassionate tells me
of record rains, record floods. with record
speed, a car coasts downhill in the avalanche

of my heartcliff. i imagine you inside, sitting like you
always do: legs outstretched without a care, taking
up each coordinate plane of my existence. i really

can’t help it; wherever i lie—pinpoint-heart and
extra-sure—i am always touching you,
superimposition of two on our fiery sun. the

afterimage sears my retina, spilling hot tears.
today even the clouds sob in your
absence, my love within each quivering

droplet. take me with you: this life
is getting harder to bear. i keep chasing
your fleeting presence, your close-lipped kiss of

T.R.San (they/them) is a queer poet based in Yangon who writes horror without meaning to. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in INKSOUNDS, Cobra Milk Magazine, and others.

Snigdha Garud (she/her) is an Indian-American writer. From Pennsylvania, she enjoys watching sunrises, sunsets, and everything in between. Snigdha's work has appeared in Blue Marble Review and Sage Cigarettes and is forthcoming in Cutbow Quarterly. You can find her on Twitter @coniferousyeti.

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