You sit cross-legged on the cold tiled        floor      
of your grandmother’s house.            Outside,
the heat hangs       like  wet laundry.
Inside, the lichen creeps between
the cracks                 like a secret that grew tired
of its own stillness,
rebuilding the dull walls into a garden
of unforgettable memories.     You peel lychees
for your mother             because she loves those.
Your nails pink with the effort 
of getting to                 sweetness.
The bowl fills with skins       tender as old paper,
soft as the things you will never say.
The seeds land like stones
that will bloom again,                   given enough
time and soil in the soft belly of summer.
& you keep peeling,        unwinding    the   layers
Like time learning to forget                   itself.
Your mother bites into another fruit,
& for a moment        the house forgets its silence.
This is to say,                       the way love
sometimes looks like labor,                        like
peeling what bruises easily just to taste   
a memory.           Your hands sticky and patient    
smell of something sweet          & gone,
& you keep peeling yourself open       
to get to something
You don’t have               a name yet for.