vignettes of our symmetry by Natalye Childress

i. we’ve made a habit of meeting in foreign places, our geographies overlapping in neutral zones. “is it not too often yet?” you ask. you’re earnest and full of a fear you’d never admit to. my answer comes not in words, but in a quiet longing. i could see you every day and it would still not be enough.

ii. we’re on the banks of the danube and you’re a statue, a piece of furniture never rearranged. we’re cautious. we spar. i don’t what to do with how it makes me feel, the intention. you raise yet another eyebrow, look into me, see me. i never noticed you before, but i notice you now. i find myself thinking of you. and just as quickly as it enters, i push the thought of you from my mind.

iii. i’m in the city of a hundred spires and you’re following me. you’re an espresso in the war room, a knee pressed against mine, a snarl in my ear.  i’m trying to focus, but it’s always my periphery, and you. you’re asking me what to do, and my answer is repeatedly for you to meet me where i am, and you do.

iv. in the parking lot of the airport, you’re playing tetris with your car, rearranging suitcases and tetra paks, rye bread and blueberry juice. driving into the city, your baseline is euphoric. i don’t have words to describe how it feels to be with you, again, here, so i’ll borrow from you: i’d meet you anywhere.  

v. the morning coffee is not yet made, and i am a cat running through your head. over the sound of helicopters, you’re asking me to be quiet, asking the sun to stop shining. it sets earlier with every passing day, so we walk to the island’s edge, sit on the shore, wordlessly watch it sink below the horizon.

vi. pyhäinpäivä, midnight in a cemetery. we walk along the rows, and flickers from candles cast shadows on headstones. in the parking lot, we talk about flavors of heartbreak, echoes of grief, how things ending can feel so final. in another week, grief will find you again. it’s relentless, this life.

vii. i’m by the fire, reading poetry. you poke your head in from outside, invite me to join you. i slip into your jacket. it swallows me. on the deck, we’re overlooking shadows of the sea. you’re smoking a pipe, and i’m smoking you. looking skyward, i see the hunter above me, but next to me it’s you, orion’s belt on your arm. i imagine what would happen if my fingertips traced the outline, a constellation on your skin, but touch is a language you’re reluctant to speak, and the last thing i’d want is to break this spell.

viii. you draw a letter, cyrillic, in the air. it reminds me of when i was a child and my brother would spell words on my back, the movement of his fingers forming the shape of each letter. it was always so hard to guess, and here in the dusk, it’s equally unknowable. you draw in the air again and again, repeating the sound until the letter reveals its shape. sch. shh. щ.

ix. we’re talking until dawn would break and i don’t know what to make of it. i’m unfolding

squares of paper in my mind. on each one, a question, and you’re holding the line. there are some things you don’t talk about. but in these moments of refusal, your silence betrays you, an answer even in the things you don’t say. you let out something like a sigh. there’s so much tenderness in your exasperation.

x. you’re in sweden, you’re in norway. you’re driving through tunnels, down forest roads. you’re stopping in cemeteries, in a driveway with a cat, or on the side of the road so the signal doesn’t cut out. sometimes your camera is pointed toward the moon, and sometimes there’s just darkness. we talk about everything, about nothing. i blink and it’s been hours. when i don’t hear your voice, i can’t help but feel the lack. there are many ways to say i miss you, and this is just another one.

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Natalye Childress (she/her) is a California-born, Berlin-based editor, writer, and translator. She has an MA in creative writing, and her first book, The Aftermath of Forever, was published by Microcosm Publishing.