If I Could Be a Criminologist for Just One Day

What would it be like to spend a day in his shoes? I want to walk silently through his memories, particularly the ones that linger in crime scenes after everyone has left. I want to sift through his memory that stands still in front of a whiteboard full of tragedies. I want to walk through his memories because I could never reach that part of him no matter how hard I tried.

I wouldn’t be there for the thrill. I’d be there to observe the way he looks at the world when no one’s watching. I’d want to finally learn the stories he never said out loud to me, even when I cradled his head in my arms as he struggled to wake from his dark dreams. 

I’d trace the photographs he pins to the wall—the faces of the dead— and see his handwriting curve along the margins. I’d watch how he circles certain names darker than others, the lines thicker when the pen pressed harder with his instinct. 

At lunch, I’d sit across from him while he quietly picks at his food. I’d watch how his eyes drift with restraint. He sees everything. He just doesn’t always let it show.

Maybe by being a criminologist for a day, I’d learn what it means to hold other people’s pain without crumbling. And maybe I’d finally understand why he sometimes looks at me like I’m a mystery too.

By the end of the day, I’d return the badge, the case files, and boxes full of evidence. I wouldn’t need to stay. 

Because…I never want the job.

I just want the man behind it. 

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Some days, love is remembering someone’s shadow. It’s like bearing witness to the way they disappear into themselves, hoping you’ve seen enough to still find them in the dark.

A poem to accompany this piece.

Rain, Neon and Sorrow

The rain spills itself across Taipei.
Neon bleeds into the pavement.
Cold wind, damp coat.
I think of you—
where you are,
what you are seeing,
what ghosts you carry home tonight.

Are you still bent over your desk,
searching for a disease,
fingers tracing the city’s veins—
sharp like a scalpel?

Are you peering again into the abyss?

Tell me—
how much blood have you washed off your hands?
how much stays,
burrowed beneath your nails,
tucked inside your sleepless bones?

I’ve seen you stare past me
with eyes that see things
you will never say.

You kiss me like a man
leaving a crime scene.
Touch me as if memorizing evidence.
Does love feel like guilt to you?

My love won’t pry open your fists,
won’t drag you back from the ledge
among the dead.
In this city of rain, neon and sorrow,
I wonder—
are you still whole?
still awake?
or has the night already claimed you?

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