Memories

There was a hardness to his voice that was unfamiliar to her. The cold indifference in his glazed eyes that struck her, forcing her to take in the firm jaw, the erect neck, the tense shoulders, slightly turned away from her own unfocused gaze.

She watched the bird flutter up high on the ledge. It twittered. As it flew, she recalled part of a song they used to sing. Fragments of a lost past that she held on to; remnants of the broken fabric of what they had. Threads.

Why do birds suddenly appear

Everytime you are near?

Just like me, they want to be

Close to you.

She wanted to be close to him. She reached out, every day, every night. She wanted to recognise him again, re-member him piece by piece, like a shattered image once treasured.

His cheerful humming broke through the memories, bringing her back to his reality. He still looked away, tapping a new rhythm, forming a new beautiful piece of composition. For their lost future together. She tried to reach him.

~

He was hospitalised. The thing was here, unannounced. Her heart broke. She tried not to cry.

"Have you been crying again?"

Accusation. False. She said no. He didn't believe her, but he didn't ask more. His voice, soft now. Tentative. He reaches out. She trembles, lets the thread fall. He was never holding it.

Why did you let go? How could you?

~

She seemed different. Could she finally be...? Yet, that was too much to hope for. She pushed the thought aside. Stop reaching out. Stop following me around, like a...

Her phone sings out to her. Her heart leaps. It's him. The alive him. She sings, joyous, aware that her prayers had him captured. She sings, free, composing her Self to him.

She whispers good night, tender. Rolls over to rest, to be herself once more. He remembers her. She hesitates, wary.

She picks up her phone. Listens to his voice on his voice-mail, once so familiar, so completely hers. She responds, distant. She says goodbye, pleased that she did her duty for the night. She relents, lets go. She drifts into slumber, dreaming of new memories, a new hope.

She retreats. Their bed. Hers, now. She sinks into the soft caress of linen, her mind silent. Her heart bleeds, hardening. She fingers the phone, wishing him to feel the thread.

Cold

Steady ready raindrops fall.

Three Minutes

1.

three minutes.

that’s it?

tough luck.

four.

don’t push it.

four or no deal.

you’re pushing it.

i’m a realist.

you’re a joke. four minutes.

thank you.

shut up.

2.

three minutes.

wonderful.

is it enough?

more than enough.

good. here, take the towel.

no blood?

no blood.

why?

less mess. does it matter?

no. don’t worry, i’ll shut him up.

thank you.

3.

three minutes.

fuck you.

watch your tongue, boy.

or what?

i’ll rip it out.

bastard.

i said watch it.

you wouldn’t dare.

watch me.

three minutes?

less.

goddamn it.

you’ll thank me one day.

fuck you.

shut up and do it.

4.

three minutes.

i know.

time’s running out.

i said i know.

you’re sweating.

yes.

would you like a towel?

shut up.

you’re pathetic.

i said shut up.

here. take it.

thank you.

5.

three minutes.

no.

don’t worry.

please.

three minutes. i promise.

you’ll be safe?

yes.

you’ll come back?

yes i will, the moment-

shush. listen. just come back, you understand?

yes.

now go. just, go.

thank you.

6.

three minutes.

impossible.

sorry, can’t be helped.

i can’t. it’s impossible.

i could help.

you’re bloody useless.

i said i could help.

i said i don’t want your help.

bloody stubborn.

i’m sweating.

towel?

no thank you.

i really could help.

just shut up.

7.

three minutes.

you’re joking.

i’m a realist.

four.

this isn’t a game.

i’m not playing. four minutes.

no.

four minutes. i promise, the moment-

three.

dammit, look, it isn’t-

two.

what? wait, no. wait.

one.

no. please. i’m not-.

time’s up.

Sad Song

You ask me to write for you

a sad song, of

little things that simmer like summer heat, before

disappearing altogether.

Crumpled paper notes, or

old shirts slung over chairs,

shared like love letters.

I am skeptical.

You ask me to write you

a sad song of lost things;

the bittersweet, self-inflicted wounds

of midnight phone calls.

The stress of rearranging

two schedules, the

carelessness of time together.

Of how we look, now,

at each other, from either side of the bed,

and find we are seperated by something more

than distance.

I will not write you a sad song.

It is vulgar.

I will write, instead, a poem

of moments like bookmarks

and fond coffee stains

that darken well washed pillow cases.

Post-it note glances that speak

Volumes.

I will write a poem

of happy things.

And it will be enough.

It will make you cry.

Fitting

I used to wear your shirts.

They were too big for me.

We would roll about in bed and kick off our shoes at the world,

as if the gesture was enough.

I wore your shirts like an armor, the same way

you wore my scent,

not a lingering thing, but a presence;

like rumpled blankets,

or the handphone I’d leave behind, absent-mindedly-

which I would return to collect in due time,

and smile, and say that I was getting old, at 16.

You would laugh a small laugh,

not because I was funny, but because you loved me, back then.

I used to wear your shirts.

I used to wear your shirts.

After the end, I kept one, and you didn’t notice.

It hangs in my closet, and smells of you.

It is a sad, heavy thing.

It is still too big for me.

Dreamer

No door, nor single lock can latch
this heart, though brittle it may seem,
for ever open arms to catch
shall wait, and in this passage, dream,
for terrible is hatred spent,
and harsh is he who shant relent.
And so such punishment I own-
not an angel shall rejoice,
for mercy won and sin atoned
cannot begin to suffer voice
to all the heavy choices thus,
made and sullied, false or just.
Henceforth, dreamer, hold thy tongue,
and do not marr the air with song,
still your breath and eager lungs,
for stiller are the hours long
and in such patience must remain,
if lovers are to meet again.

For A.

Judge

It was silent in here.
I felt the loneliness most intensely here but it's so so silent.
It's the silence I'm most frightened of. But I need it. I need the silence.

I watch him looking up outside the window. What must it be like, to want to be out so badly and yet be so unsure about what lies outside that frame?

I reach out to touch him but there's something about him that looks so fragile, so frightened. My hand withdraws.
I feel most vulnerable when he looks at me. When he turns his pointed head and looks straight into my eyes. I like it. I like that someone sees me. Sees me without judging.

The word 'judge' has a very male taste to it. Judge.
What is it about words that make you feel frightened of them? Alphabets strung together to make people feel smart.

I have a dream. He looks really tired now, but the slightest change in movement, in sound, and he whips right around. Amazing.

Mermaid

There’s only so much beating a heart can take, before it has to stop.

Mermaid.
And when I woke, the words of the night before were submerged, like an old and sunken shipwreck;

Lustre bleeding into the brine and turquoise. hours would drain away, till the day was near empty, before she would surface again. She would slither along the side of the new ship now, the new ship sailing for the full stop, for the moon-rise, the silver bracelet in the distance that cuffed sea and sky together.

If only for a moment. she would make certain that it would never finish the journey. Melodies would bubble from her salty throat and fairy above the waves. they would swim together like this.
The ship borne on all the moisture of her lips, hearing things that burst like colorless fireworks, and slowly, the ship would forget it’s course, would allow itself to be lulled, like a child, till the wind was replaced and the waters erased.

Heavily, it would sink, of it’s own accord, down to the depths with the ships before. And she would disappear into the hours.

Tender as faith, certain as trust, stronger than hope, sweeter than lust, warmer than friendship, simpler than song- such is a kiss that you build a dream on.

A Simple Story

A children’s tale, for adults.

Once upon a time, there was a Story.

It was not a great, big story; meaning to say that it was by no means an Epic, but it was not a tiny, silly little bedtime story either.

It was a simple story.

It had a reasonably interesting plot, and a good angle. There was a good guy, and there was a bad guy. There was even a girl. And the ending was rather swell.

It was a good story, and kept to itself. The few people who knew it wore smiles on the insides of their hearts and loved it dearly; some even remembered to tell it to their children before they died, and in turn, the few children who were mesmerized by it and loved it and kept it with them in their memories grew up and told their children, in time, and brought smiles to their hearts.

Many happy years passed.

Then, one day, the story realized that it was not alone. There were other stories. Some were small and childish, and some were Big and Powerful. The Big Stories had exciting plots and very clever endings. They had layers and metaphors and symbols and similes and lots of deep messages. They were better than the simple story. Many people liked them.

The simple story thought to itself, ‘This will not do!
Why should I be content with the Love of so few?
I’m not a bad story! I bet if I grew,
I could be just as big as those Big Stories too!’

And so the story began to spread itself around by word of mouth, faster and faster. It passed itself down through the generations; from Grandfather to Grandson, from Mother to Daughter, from Brothers to Friends and so on. It was shared between Lovers in the dead of night. It was whispered around campfires when the moon was full. It hurried and scurried from mouth to mouth and each time it was told, it grew, just a little. Each time it was told, it changed, just a little. Soon, the story discovered Paper and Ink, and grew to become books. And then it discovered the Radio, and grew to become tapes. It discovered the Theatre, and grew to become great dramas. It discovered Television and grew to become movies and sitcoms and serials and it was only a matter of time before the once-simple story had grown and changed and travelled all across the globe- and still it continued to spread until, one day, there was not a single person in the whole world who did not know the story.

‘There’, it thought, ‘That was easy-peasy!
Now everyone in the whole wide world loves me!’

And it looked upon all the Grandfathers and Grandsons, the Mothers and Daughters, the Brothers and Friends and Lovers and they all looked back and adored it. It was no longer just a simple story. It was a Big, Powerful story that everyone knew, and it put smiles on their faces- for a time.


Then, one by one, they all forgot.

They simply forgot the story. You see, everyone knew it, so it wasn’t really very interesting anymore. And besides, there was no one left to tell it to, so no one really needed to remember it, did they?

Just before it died, the story cried a bit and remembered the few people who had truly loved and cherished it when it had been a young and simple story, putting smiles on the insides of their hearts.

‘If only I had kept their Love,’ it wept,
‘I know now it would have been enough.
It had always, really, been more than enough.’

And with that, it faded away.

So it was; Once upon a time, there was a story. It was not a great, big story, meaning to say it was by no means an epic, but it wasn’t a silly little bed time story either.

It was just a simple story.

The End

flick upon the back of eyeballs
i see a sore
where my heart should be.

For A.