Almost By Liwen Xu


hozier plays in the back of our silverfish minivan,
soft and sweet. sunday mornings are this: breeze
over our toes from cracked windows,
laughter as we lay still. smoke sways
against the remnant of last night’s rhythm and blues,
and our singsong peaks and crescendos, alongside.

he’s here now, and sometimes i still see you in his
smile, rosy and coy. summers that end
in song and ghostly starlight, where tomorrow
is still a distant promise, haunt me.

they glisten like freshwater and sting with warmth.
and in their recession, all i see is you,
a first love, promises scattered like fields of falling leaves.

it’s autumn
and i can’t bring myself to say goodbye

By Liwen Xu


Liwen Xu is an Asian American writer based in the SF Bay Area. Her work has appeared in literary magazines such as Waxwing, Sine Theta Magazine, bitter melon poetry, and Mangrove Journal, and she is a graduate of the Tin House Summer Workshop. In her free time, she’s frequently running park trails,
exploring new pockets of cities, and curating a haiku food Instagram @bon_appepoetry. You can find some of her work at or@liwendyxu on Twitter.

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