Before we met face to face, I would look at the occasional picture you would send and wonder what the fuck you actually look like. Somehow, you seemed different from picture to picture. The mystery was finally solved—yet was not rendered any less mysterious—when at last we met in person. After gazing long into the abyss, and having the abyss stare back into me, I came to the tantalizing realization that your eyes posses the rarest of beauties, that of asymmetry: The left is Western, round and inviting, while the right is Asian, slanted and exotic.
This dichotomy, of which your eyes are but the most striking physical manifestation, runs through your core. It is your core. You are both Japanese and Chinese, both an elite student and a complete fuck-up, both incredibly mature and unfathomably childlike. And yet, you are neither. You don’t belong on either side. Your existence defies cataloging. You have no home. You are free, and at the same time, pitifully imprisoned.
But goddamn, those eyes are pretty.
I remember walking into your room one night and finding you sprawled on the armchair, wearing that net leggings that had been haunting my dreams since first you teased me with it in a blurry picture. My jaw hit my knees on its way down. And all you did was look at me, innocently, detachedly, mockingly. What? Your eyes seemed to ask. Never seen a Sino-Japanese girl with asymmetric eyes wearing a slutty net leggings before?
We fucked a lot on that armchair. Come to think of it, we fucked a lot on the sofa and mattress as well. And all around the room, with you bent over in the sacred position of Standing Doggy. It was magnificent. Exuberating. Life affirming, in a lethal sort of way. But on the armchair specifically I came in your mouth twice out of a total of three. The first time, you had grown tired from sucking and were stroking me with your long, delicate fingers, and as I grunted that I was about to explode, you took it into your mouth and sucked my soul out of my pee-hole. The second time, you had grown tired even of stroking and I was simply shoving it in and out of your oral cavity, until I imploded internally, crying a stifled “In the mouth..!!” Those were the days. Or, more precisely, those were the nights.
You seem to smile a lot nowadays when I call you on WeChat. Funny, I don’t remember you smiling all that much when you were here. Maybe it’s the separation. I used to cry whenever your face would appear on my screen, or if I walked into your old room, or if I otherwise thought of you unexpectedly. But you, my wise and cheeky chipmunk, just smile. And when you do, your eyes sparkle with the light they suck out of the room, and I feel like crying because you are so amorphously, iridescently beautiful.
And you know what, you might not be truly Japanese or Chinese, you might not be entirely from the south or from the north, but you do have a home. And as long as your left eye is West, and your right eye is East, all you have to do is face North and keep everything properly aligned. Then your home would always be between my arms that want nothing more than to hold you close.
I miss you, baby. Both parts, on every dimension, and the integrated whole they call forth.
