we cook honeysuckle berries into
potion and wonder what kissing is like

in the clearing right by the highway, 
between the roar of cars and the

Korean church on the outskirts of town.
I dream of loving you in hangul 

wrapping you in stories I forgot:
all that I could carry from a tired mother,

her child, and a laundromat parking lot
if I loved you in hangul, would you?

would we stumble through middle school
with our fingers woven tight

would we lay under the stars and share
the constellations only we know

would I get to learn how to speak better, 
to write love letters and insta captions and 
eulogies and coming-out letters and
read the words around my name

when you left,
I hardly ever made honeysuckle mash

again