She came against his will,
knocking on his door after
the last bus back to Seoul
had already left.  

And he let her stay,
but all through the night
she pawed at him, till he
sent her to the couch,
where she wept for hours,
and disturbed his sleep.

Weeks later he will gush over his new job
before ambling over to the powdered girls
in the high chairs to try his luck.

Who knows if she
stitched up her heart in time
or passed her exams?  
Remorse is an antiquated mood.    
But though he goes faster, in time,
she too will probably forget;
their stories turning into something else.

But somewhere
she is still pleading
her fingers still hoping
praying to her lover
(or some other maybe)
let me remind him
how it can feel  
tomorrow we can
tomorrow tomorrow
there was a world in us  
don’t kill it  

Is there a heaven for
for aborted worlds,
lights to mark celestial
graves and hold them all
with warmth and unfamiliar
gentleness?

At night
they whisper,
not to us,
but one another,
offering compliments,
gentle criticisms,
and sometimes
tender condolences
for a familiar loss
which they can never name