Sunday, April 17, 2016


it's funny

just last night
i was sitting at a table
window behind me, window next to me
and the whole of sunway lit up beneath me

cards in one hand, tequila shot in the other
the sound of glass on glass
eyes squeezed shut tight
laughter that eases the burn
(and burden)

and tonight
i am sitting at a table
window too high above me
ceiling too vast beyond me

pen in one hand, eyes on the screen
the weight of tangled thoughts on a heavy heart
eyes shut against the tide
questions, accusations
(burn, burn)


i am shutting my eyes -
come morning, maybe i'll smile for you

just, no

the answer is no

and i don't owe you a reason why
i don't owe you any explanation
no buts, no because
just, no
(inhales, exhales)

maybe i don't feel like putting on pants
or maybe i don't feel like putting on a smile
or maybe i want to sleep in a little longer
maybe i want to hide under my covers and cry my day away

maybe i am tired, is that reason enough?

leave me be
you cannot change me
or my mind

i hear you, i heed you
and i love you

still, no


sometimes, frustration is a tangible weight constricting my chest.
right now, it is heavy and it is hard to breath. 

Monday, April 04, 2016


when you told me that this reminded you of a time all those years ago - did you know that all the memories long locked away came back to me?

oh, to be fourteen again..
but i think, we are okay now.

Thursday, March 10, 2016

a verse

Today, this deep longing washed over me, like it was a great wave and i was a sandcastle on the shore - grand, four towers on each corner, drawbridge and moat and all - but ultimately, utterly helpless. And like the ocean's love, it was infinite.

I craved a beautiful word, a beautiful turn-of-the-phrase - beautiful enough to make me close my eyes and recite it under my breath, over and over and over again. I craved seeing my heart on paper, reading my thoughts in black-and-white - feeling understood.

So i looked for a poem - short enough for me to read before i left for class and i came across one by Walt Whitman. And the last few lines hit me right where it hurts - what is the point of life?
That you are here - that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
O Me! O Life! Walt Whitman

Wednesday, March 02, 2016


i had a conversation with a friend that day over grilled chicken and shared soda - what do we want out of life?

there is a part of me that wants my reputation to run before me - paper proofs of my intelligence, alphabetical string of acronyms behind my name, numbers on my bank balance, numbers on my house address  - the whole works.

but am i willing? to put in the hours and to give up the hours.
it's not hard work that scares me - it's the time spent all alone when i could be doing something, anything else.

what am i missing out on while chasing something so fragile and at the end of my days, so futile?
time spent with the people i love, time spent doing all the other things i love - is it worth it?

i won't deny it - the satisfaction of achievement is an addiction - but really, what is it worth?

there's a part of me that wants to survive on a subsistence level - living off love and light and laughter, doing good work that means something real and true, touching lives of people close enough for me to touch -

don't get me wrong - i do intend to graduate well - but after that?
do i want to spend all my years climbing the career ladder? working and working and working?
or do i want to use my license to do works that makes my heart and eyes swell?

right now, both my knees are bruised - from captainball played on my church's carpeted fifth floor and from working a rock-climbing route over and over and over again - and even now, with my year two finals two months away, i know these are the things i must give up -

but i am not willing to give them up for the rest of my life -

there are so many other things i want, there are so many other things that mean happiness to me -

Friday, February 19, 2016


You remember that day, don’t you?
The day we sat in your car,
Under a young tree, a sapling still,
In the rain, merely a drizzle, merely an excuse stalling the walk home.
We talked and talked around the bushes and talked around the elephants,
Then there were the lapses of silences, the pregnant pauses.

I remember tracing the line the drops of rain left behind with my eyes,
Following the raindrops racing across the windscreen, across the sunshade you had opened for me,
Pressing my open palm against the cool glass above me, watching the rain fall onto me but never touching me,
And you watching me, wanting but never touching me,
Watching my eyes wide with wonder, my bare neck and its skin so thin you could break blood with a nip of your teeth,
Watching the hollow of my neck, the mountains and the valleys, rising and falling with each of my breath.

I remember tracing the line your drops of tears left behind with my eyes,
Following the teardrops down your cheek, deep into the heart you had opened for me,
Pressing my open palm against the hollow of your chest and its empty caverns you beg me to fill,
Rising and falling with each of your breath.

I watch the raindrops chase each other, melt into each other and disappear,
I imagine they are a puddle of happiness now.
I watch the raindrops, too heavy and running too fast, and I watch as a small droplet breaks away and is left behind, while the rest race across the windscreen and they too, disappear.
I imagine they are like us now.
But which one of us is left behind?

You say it is me, who have run back into my childhood home,
Already burnt to the ground, only mountains of grey ash and a blackened framework left,
And reignited the fire.
But you must know, mustn’t you?
That I did not reignite it, that the flames never died, never even dimmed.

I had only ran and ran so far that I could see no spark of its burning fire,
And locked myself in the darkest of places,
Stubborn, disillusioned.
And you were a candle, burning yourself to soft white wax for me,
But with time, the soft white wax too, cooled and hardened.
You do not understand that it took courage to walk into fire, to save my soul trapped in a burning house.

And I say it is you who is left behind,
It is you who is lost, it is you who is wasting your own youth,
And you know its truth.

Some days I walk into my sister’s room,
And the scent of her absinthe hand cream stops me at the door and sways me from the ground I stand on. 
I remember your shoulder and your neck and all your secret spaces that I had hidden my face in,
And the very same scent that clings to your skin, sharp and sudden like nostalgia, sweet and spirited like memory.

//the shower is indeed the incubator of all things wondrous hahahah - and you, if you are reading this, yes, my train of thoughts started with you but it has since derailed far from its tracks - this is neither about you nor me - merely a fragment of what could have been or what might have been - ah, life, what a wondrous thing.

Monday, January 11, 2016


did i wake you? of course i did, it's 5am. let's have breakfast later.


lunch is casual and dinner is a date.
breakfast, breakfast is for you and i.
breakfast is for the boy and his 5am wake-up calls, his too chirpy good mornings and hello darlings, his let's grab breakfast at 9am.
breakfast is for dim sum and driving off to our days with silly smiles.
breakfast is for the best kind of company :)