transience by Olivia Hu

the fog is spitting straws of sunlight,
the edges crisp like blades.
sister’s hair is bouncing like waves
as you run down the dock, the board
swerving like drunk lungs, breath intoxicated.
the night is painting the sky hues of
desperation and angst. the waves
start lamenting its heartache again,
sings songs of lust and need, a hollow
void yearning to swallow a filler. dancing
distortedly, it reaches hysterically for
something to hold on to. do not slip away,
it begs. built up on loss, it learns to flee before
the blade falls. the air reeks of salt and bitterness,
smelling like a fervor to be more than fleeting.

 

Olivia Hu
Olivia Hu is fifteen years old, is a lover of cats, and weaves words on her loom. She is forthcoming on Eunoia Review, Brouhaha Magazine, and Cyberriot, among others, and she recently won a national Canadian writing competition in the prose category. She also writes for HerCulture’s magazine and blog. You can find her wandering the café-scented streets of downtown dreamy-eyed or finding solace in her safe haven, a bookstore.

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