By SARRIA JOE
These are not just my American dreams; they are promises you sowed to me long before we both knew. Maybe I should’ve known the timing was cosmic; it would explain my sudden affection for vermilion. You approached me with an impression of glory that wasn’t quite as dark but still pure in kind, so that it gently unsettled me. Forever rarely appealed to me, but I treasured the ache for reverence. So when you kept lingering, it made me wonder why it all felt so familiar and so serene. You handed me something I wanted long before I could even recognize my desire for it. I realized it in the pouring rain when you waited with no cover just to make yourself known to me twice. I didn’t think to look twice, but you were rooted across from me, and I could no longer be oblivious to you.
I took your hand in mine, I leaned in, and I let myself feel the weight of your restraint. I wondered why you kept approaching when you knew it couldn’t happen then, but now I know you were softly striving to preserve the beginnings and remains of what almost was. You held back, so I retreated because denial didn’t serve either of us. Neither of us was willing to make it known out loud, and admittedly, it provoked a particular sorrow in me. A sorrow that realizes desire is selfish, and desire kills within an undesirable time. If not for time’s brutal mercy, I wouldn’t have been torched by the impression of glory you treaded so carefully.
Still, I don’t know if it was ever about you or simply the yearning. It felt thrilling to possess that kind of power over someone. You were willing to encircle yourself with a burning torch even if it meant I could possibly notice. My ignorance was never a lack of care; it was a plea for poise. I was drunk on my ego as I witnessed the fervid yet quiet tempering of desire. I don’t believe I treasured reverence for its own virtue; I merely reveled in the control that its power granted me. It was only after your restraint that I recognized my sorrow wasn’t some hopeless ache for passion; it was about being so attuned from a distance that I held control in my palms without ever exerting pressure. Even with my arms folded and my legs crossed, you still found ways to come near, and I relished how I could wield so much force.
I couldn’t have returned almost a portion of your emotional depth because I am paralyzed by my pride. I tell myself that I was ready then and that I could finally handle it, knowing my emotional capacity was so little compared to your care. You deserve someone who knows how to feel. I am still learning to breathe, so I couldn’t even whisper sincere endearments. If affection remained a promise, I could someday come around and find a way to meet you again. But in practice, I can’t allow myself to care intimately for anyone. It’s a sacrifice that demands transformation of everything I hold dear: performance, power, and poise. I am not incapable; I am self-serving. I’m not scared of you knowing that; I am terrified of you recognizing how cruel I can be. I truly wish it were a guise, but your burning torch barely damaged my velvet walls.
My American dreams were solely for my independence and certainly not your harmony. These promises were never mine or yours to deliver, so I am oblivious as to why it all felt so familiar and so serene. My affection for vermilion will never wane, but I’m beginning to shake your impression of glory. I can see now my sorrow was never about you, and my desire was never for you; it was lust for a feeling that I won’t allow myself to hold.
Writer | Sarria Joe ’27 | sjoe27@amherst.edu
Editor | Saige Ennis ’28 | sennis28@amherst.edu
Artist | Xyoa Wilding ’28 | xwilding28@amherst.edu