Sapphirism

The waxing crescent hangs low over Liyue. The streets are illuminated by fire lanterns, casting a soft glow on the stone path. Zhongli and Childe stand outside the entrance of Liuli Pavilion, their stomachs and hearts warm with the wholesome food and enriching conversation. They’ve been doing this for weeks now, long enough to know that this is where they part ways. Tomorrow will bring another sun, and they will begin another day, bound by their respective duties and contracts. But at this moment, as they gaze at each other, with the cool night breeze running her fingers through their hair, they can pretend that this is eternity. A capsule of eternity in their hands, a spell broken only when one of them reaches forward to kiss the other goodnight.  Yet tonight, Childe doesn’t want to let Zhongli go. Maybe it’s an effect of the way his eyes shone as he spoke about the ingredients and history of the Slow Cooked Bamboo Shoot Soup they ordered tonight. Or maybe it is the sleek black-and-go

i press a palm to her cold marble sternum. the polished stone mirrors the moonlight, holding the beauty it can never possess. come daylight, her flesh will be flushed with vitality, the sepia hues filling in every fold of her skin. the night enveloping us is the throbbing heartbeat of the world, the crickets playing the violin to their lovers on balconies, leaves singing lullabies to the breeze, which carries it to the curtains, making them dance. her shadow flickers like a flame on the rustling fabric, like the flame at Rochester's bedside that set his room ablaze. the moon shivers and the curtains open into her face like a rose in full bloom. her eyes are self-illuminating stars. her lips glisten from our kiss. her breaths are shaky--and limited, i realise. her impermanence is washable chalk on the slate of the earth. one day, my hand, slow and sorrowful, would pass over the cold marble of her mausoleum, mourning the beauty that could not stay. her body, formerly animated, would

tw: abuse, death, trauma how seasonal, her love is. the summer has sucked it dry. you chase the shimmering mirage of perfection, running until your lungs burn, your muscles scream, until black spots dance in your vision. your eyes sting from the sand in her words, leaking salt. her fist clenches around your heart. she carves in wounds to match her hurt. you love her, despite. you love her, because. you love her, and it is your ruin. you do not choose yourself. but you're selfish, just a little. you see, she loves someone she wants you to be. you wish you could be that person. but you don't allow her to chisel you into perfection because individuality. the nerve of you. you recall that lignocaine summer when you loved her with closed lids. love was always conditional, but the terms were easier before the update. now you hide like a rat in the bathroom and insulate the pain with tears, like water cleansing a bloody scrape. your chest heaves. your mouth gasps for air. you recall t

When my parents are old,  I'd love to show them flying cars in our country.  I'd love to show them that the man who washes cars  Also owns one. I saw an ad the other day  Of a girl cross-dressing to go to school.  I hope that it turns into a choice,  Not the necessity that it is for some.  I hope there are lesser people  With their hands outstretched at street lights, streaming eyes  And more of those who are able to give.  I hope we wear our identities proudly on our chests,  But not so proudly to be haughty to those who carry badges of different colours.  Or those, who worship different gods.  I hope that all the little children of my country run amok in the streets  And jump over pebbles to go to school,  And don't wipe the dirty dishes in a grubby restaurant.  Or someone's house.  I hope women don't have to think twice before leaving the house at midnight,  Or when they raise their voice against the pay gap.  I hope there are more ears than voices,  And that no