Maybe there is some small, weak part of me that wants to be wanted, to hold hands with someone beautiful in the blue-dark, to breathe and hear its echo, to walk through the alleys of Beijing with another shadow falling naturally beside mine. No, not weak. This is what I need to get into my head. Hope is not weakness. It’s oxygen, a crack in the window, the pale slash of moonlight across a dusty room. Maybe I should start learning to invite it in.
