When I think back to the fifth of July, I can see myself on the dimpled, decaying tan couch. I see my body sinking into a deep sea of tweed cushions. I feel my arms, shaking, wrapped around Julia to keep myself afloat. I’m curling into her beating body. I know that at this moment, I wanted to merge my body with hers so that I wouldn’t have to be alone, so that I could always keep track of the rhythmic pumping of her blood, circulating, dancing through her body.

When I think back to that night, I see her crashing to the hardwood floor as a deep blue wave and bringing a tide of sea-salt tears with her. I see her ripping away from my arms and leaving me to sink. 

When I think back to July fifth, I feel my lungs filling up. A foaming wave of chilling water crashes into me again, and again, and again. 

I can feel my fingers tingling, being plucked from the root and carried off by minnows, one, by one, by one, by one, by one, by one, by one, by one, by one, by one.

Sia Moon is a young New Orleans-based writer of black and Buryat descent. Her writing has been featured in the Riverbend Review, the Eunoia Review, Chewers by Masticadores, and other publications. She has upcoming work in the 826 National Anthology. Her work has won a Scholastic Writing Gold Key.