by Burton Wu
She is looking at you, waiting. She is waiting for the scene, motionless. With only the loose strands of her hair riding the quiet tsunami, she is gawking, a glance that can only be mistaken by those who aren’t being stared by it. Moments transpire, and her stature becomes solid and immobile. Relentlessly, the hard dilatation of her eyes snaps at me with authority, that a prominent entity is observing me. I can do nothing but stare back, fantasizing that she had the power to read my soul. Read my pain, which is too painful for me to put in words; for such a feeling is buried, shrewd beyond physical realms of speech. Quell the toppling anguish. It swells out of my body, down my face, onto her fingers.