i liked the small i since it spoke
like a wrinkled shirt or the kink in
the toothbrush glass, waiting to shatter.
i was the shared chocolate, the dot full as
quarters or a milk glass. and i was the moon on
her lone trajectory across the oil sky,
grazing neighbor stars with mellow rattles.
i was the oil on the grip of the hair dryer, the
pair of flaxen sandals, the empty space around them.
i am crawling alone along the edge of
the universe left as i, myself, when i
remember who to love; somewhere in that
list is room left for me. i am here, i think,
on the airport map and the ant’s fraying antenna,
but still i was the swear binding me to solitude.
Aisha Weththasingha is a high school poet in California graduating in 2026. She has been nationally recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers. Her writing has appeared in DePaul’s Blue Book, Gigantic Sequins, Writers Circle Journal, The Echo and forthcoming in Breakwater Review. She serves as a Co-Editor-in-Chief of Polyphony Lit. When she isn’t jotting down image descriptions in her trusty notes app, she’s either reading, ice skating, or snacking on olives.