night

we were on my backs
looking for light
in pitch blackness

a sliver of silver
the only glow
glazing the leap into nothingness

immobile in our bags
we lay like wingless butterflies
eyes wide shut

the air fogged
with each exhale

then one winked
another fluttered
black melted and blitzed with light

leaping and playing
there was soundless laughter
in an absolute void

electric

you smiled
i cried

far was the furthest star
but it was closer than you are

Flowers for Lisa

I made a pencil scratch on the table. A little crescent, its edge curving like the arch of her back against the light. The clock’s hands pull long shadows across the wall, pointing to the window where she will, in approximately five minutes wander by, meandering lampposts, car meters, cyclists, dogs, people. A tune whispering in her ears, smile caught on her lips. Crossing the receding tarmac in the fading light.

Here are some flowers for Lisa. Pink, orange, gold. The sweet scent sprinkling garden-freshness in the room. And here is my heart laid plain on paper, a warm wet thing throbbing with desires.

I twirl the pencil and make a moue.

A breeze whisks the curtains. The same breeze that will flip her hair from her eyes. Soulful and blue, like a string plucked on a double bass.

14 February 2012, 5:04pm, Tuesday

Last Night

My Singtel line quietly expired after midnight.
After 14 years, there were no goodbyes, see-you-arounds.

One moment, you were there.
The next moment, gone.
No signal.
Just the WIFI and the air-con.
And the hollowness that replaced the warm spot you used to sit in.
On the ledge, at arm’s length.
The first thing I reached for in the morning.
The last thing I saw before I slept at night.

You were like an old friend.
Who saw me through school.
Through the different seasons of my life.
Through boyfriends, exams, job interviews.
Holidays, breakups, weddings, funerals.
My navigator, my entertainer.
My partner-in-crime.

So this is my eulogy for you.
Because even though you had your screw-ups.
Your fuck-ups, your PMS-es.
We grew up together.
Creating and deconstructing things.
Exploring and discovering people and places.
You made it much more interesting.
Much more rich, exciting, connected.

Goodbye Singtel.
Thank you for being part of my life.

a study of silence

i see her in my mind. a face. piteous.
driven to fade by tears and pain.
features now a blur and agitation of parts.
rose-tinted on the eyes, the mouth.
the mouth, a downcast moon. mute, immobilised by loss.
or a loss of not knowing what more to say. or do.
what is there to be done.
i have done all i could. i have.
anymore would mean to kill her.
death doesn’t scare her any longer.
death would almost be kind.

she raises a hand to her chest. and holds it there, briefly.
her eyes are dulled by waiting. for nothing.
hope has left her.
all she has, is despair in her gallery. gazing.
into a mirror. remembering all that had once been beautiful.
now wilted, rotten, disconsolate.
the lying mirror. and the plain hard truth.

–17.7.11

Figures

The sun peeped through the gap in the curtains, like an alleyway of light that led to a new day. She opened her eyes, half shrouded by sleep and her lips parted, exhaling back ache and throb in temple.

Her thoughts skidded straight to him — an anomalous figure shrouded in shadow. A person that only existed in a grey box, made out of text and pixels. He’s not real, not real she tells herself. But she knows better. These emotions she she feels for him are as real and familiar as the ache in her heart. Afterall, she has been fighting them for the last six months.

She sits up in bed and looks at nothing in particular. The feeling of being lost and tired floods back into her. She wants to lie down again and go back to sleep. At least in sleep, she forgets.

The shaft of light shifts and falls onto her toes. She looks at it and wonders when her feet will find the path back to the light again. She used to be so cheerful and carefree.

Oh look at this tangle of thorns.

–24.11.11

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