for the boy at the sushi bar.

I go to the market to buy flowers for the boy at the sushi bar. 

He told me the sun only glows for a lifetime, before the skies are washed out with star-tears and too blue lattes, (their cloud foam all evaporated). I guess I took that as a way of him telling me he remembers only his affinity with time, so flowers seemed an appropriate gift. They live for just a single breath of golden dust, after all. 

And so: 

A yellow rose– to convey a sense of friendship; for all the temaki he would sneak to me after the leftover miso stained the air of night. I can still recall him with his honey-brown eyes, that first time where he stayed and sat for a while on bamboo boards: 

“Quick, hurry up and eat, Oneesan. My Sofu will be coming soon, and he’ll beat the crap out of me if he sees you.” 

I remembered he had sticky rice bits clinging to his fingertips as he handed me the temaki. He rolled them hastily, I could tell, but they tasted as deep as would fried stars and seared pearls. (Sometimes I wonder if he plucks celestials and glazes the nori with their nectar; they are too heavenly flavored.) 

A daisy– to describe the pureness within his wholesome heart; for the hand-crafted chopsticks he gifted me on my eleventh birthday all those years ago. He said he carved them when the crescent was a ship and a fish hook was dropped from its stern to guide his wave-crested markings. He grinned when I told him my heart was with the Sea, for he fragmented a siren into the ebony bone, and forever, now, I could be with my Blue. 

I still hold those chopsticks when the rain becomes too damp to carve new ones. They faintly smell of his herbal-stained fragrance. 

Jasmine– to remind him of his caring soul; for the sencha he brewed when I was ill, (and made sure I drank even when I refused). My milk-colored sheets are stained with the memories of spilling tea and shaky hands, when I was sick with the mysterious fever. And yet as I stroke the snow fabric, I can only tell myself that he was there, kneeling at the foot of my bed, handing me the sencha that ceased the fire within my throat. 

When others truly love, I suppose, it leaves a memory as strong and as gentle as the flavor of tea. 

A hydrangea– to unwrap the boxed-up words still restlessly waiting on his tongue; for all the philosophical afternoons, where it was just me and him chattering the skies’ sanity away with ink-whispered letters and soft mochis. My favorite recollection remains to be the time when he and I discussed the origin of the stars. He had been thinking for quite a while before settling with the thought that:

“God must’ve snapped his fingers and the sparks formed into all the celestial bodies.” 

“Nah,” I had said in response. “He breathed them into existence, just like that, all sparkling, and beautiful, and ever so powerful.” 

I don’t think he was convinced, because he had twisted his lips into the spiral of a curled fern. “Really? What makes you say that?”

“Well, the Bible says that in the beginning God created the heavens and the Earth, and He spoke them into existence. So, it would only make sense for Him to breathe the stars, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so.” 

The conversation went on, and I don’t believe I ever had him fully surrendered to my theory. But that didn’t matter, not to me and him. Because we were simply inseparable. 

A sunflower– to bring back his beautiful smile that lit the heavens into golden hours; for all the times he would grin with the sun and uproot blossoms to weave them into my hair. “Fairy chains,” he called them, “because the seeds were steeped in fairy dust before they were planted into the ground.” 

I miss his smile, the red-checkered picnics with purple butterflies, and the sakuras drifting to the ground. The air was always fresher, then, with pinker tones and softer breezes. He would dance in the wind and sing a little silly song that was off-tune, but apparently acceptable to the birds, as they would chirp along. 

An orchid– to tell him he was always beautiful, whether he knew it or not; for all the tiny notes he placed into my unsuspecting palm. I hope he knew I treasured them, then, and still do, now. I have one hanging beside my bed, and it says:

Ohayo, Oneesan! Just wanted to say you looked so pretty, yesterday, in your new dress! It looked perfect for the festival, especially in the moonlight, ‘cause, you know, with the white fabric and all. 

P.S. Wanna come over, tomorrow? My Sofu is gonna have some honey-dew melon!

The honey-dew melon, I remember it. When his Sofu cut it open, it melted into golden syrup and delicate, orange flesh. Me and him– we both had sticky-stained grins and tacky fingers too slippery to do anything with. The summer sun had been unbearably hot, but the melons were always sweet and cool– the perfect remedy. 

Baby’s breath– to serve as the temporary reminder of our everlasting friendship; for every teal and sun-burst and strawberry string, and each threaded bracelet we would make together. (I forced him to wear his, around his ankle, and he would always complain, saying, “Boys don’t wear jewelry.” He was stubborn, beautifully stubborn.)

I too was obstinate, I suppose, because I took ‘us’ for granted. I’m eternally grateful, then, for the strength of such a friendship. It’s hilarious to think that this– me and him– all started in a sushi bar. But perhaps it was simply fate. 

And a daffodil– to whisper him goodnight, “thank you,”; for every new beginning he would light up in the glow of the moon, every story told from his word-tainted tongue. The sunsets are suddenly blue-er, (a beautiful blue), because he told me, “I believe in the future painted with suns, and stars, and undoubtedly you.”