Loss of Mass

Steven Pan


In the middle of summer,
August cradles you in
her sticky breath. Liquid abandons
your veins and clenches
onto the edges of your neck. 

Between the fractures of nighttime
cadences, an ice machine hums
to an open window. 
Its pulses burrow into the roots
of your mouth, reminding
you of infinity
swelling and receding.  

Scientists once believed they
could weigh the human soul. 
In the beginning, you were a
flush of frenzy and copper. 
Now, time has decolorized
your fever. 

Now, you wonder if all the
love and hate that  
trickled through your blood
could amount
to a feather.



Steven Pan is a recent college graduate. His works have been featured in Phosphene, Unbroken Journal, and White Ash Literary Magazine. He can usually be found in a local coffee shop fussing over line breaks and spacing. 

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