Jumbled around and swirling
As if the memories are the
just-flushed toilet with the water
racing to get out.

It was the little things.
That pieced it all together
And finally the pieces fit right,
as if your friendship was a puzzle.
You had finally found that one person who got you.

The one person who laughed with you for 20 minutes
over absolutely nothing.
The person who trudged around town with you
Your flip-flops slapping against the pavement.
The person who went same movie twice in a day
Just so you both got to make out with your boyfriends.
The one person who you had a couples name with
And an anniversary with, too.

But eventually,
You will realize that the perfect fitting pieces were
Jammed together to make the puzzle fit
And the puzzle picture that you once thought was
beautiful
Makes no picture at all.

the night sends its stars to watch for us,
assures us with its shimmer and silence;
but tonight it inhales the bonfire's breath,
when our dreams were all too fresh.

temptation is not
an angel right and a devil left:
there are no halos, no wings, no horns, no tails
who whisper into your conscience,
your eyes do not wipe your sockets
like wipers do the windscreen
to try resolve those dissonant whispers.

temptation is itself a full-stop.
not mid-sentence of an incomplete line.
you think you are mid-sentence,
but you're already surrendered.

no halos, no horns.

I.
her soft footsteps shuffle from their slumber,
awakening the hushed orchestra of:
metal spoons and kettles and tinkling cans,
the jingling of boiling milk, of half-boiled eggs,
the sounds of breakfast.
(the sun is sleeping on its horizon)

II.
her ceaseless footsteps are not weary with night,
on your bed, you hear that decorative tune:
spoons, kettles, cans, stained cups and bowls
washing themselves after dinner.
(the moon is resting on its zenith)

this quiet love.

my maestro, how do you -
with your baton - keep the
pulse of my heart aching
for the broad gestures your
open arms insinuate?

tell me wholly, how you -
with your hands - conjure
in me an anthem con brio,
then throw me subito doloroso
and even so, never losing
your scherzando.

take the man who knew everything:
he walked the boulevard knowing and thinking,
that a poorly-planted tree could, possibly,
let go its roots and knock him with a thump, or,
that he could perhaps, trip over a careless rock,
muddy his shoes in an unevaporated puddle
of yesterday’s rain, cross paths with ten thugs.
such foresight, he walked that boulevard with
a shield, thicker glasses, even thicker yellow boots,
except he could not stop no one ****, so,
he crossed the boulevard with that one discomfort.

now, take the man who knew nothing:
he walked the boulevard, and
crossed to the other side.

as on a musical score,
our parts are dictated,
spelt out in dynamics,
in rhythm, in pitch, in
timing, in tone.

our fingers are being manipulated
across the instruments of our lives,
abandoning the very soul of our existence.

but observe how a little improvisation
in this large chorus of soulless players
does no harm.

it's liberating -
like a line that cares not for rhythm nor syntax nor sound nor length.

too often you **** me with your
monosyllabic question: your lips
form it, so gradually, and hence,
inquisitively, that i,  i would not
miss that diphthong you emphasised,
that question of why - yet too often
i find myself unable to proceed
beyond because...

sometimes, i sense myself spilling
my youth from a fragile glass jar.

other times, i conclude it's just me storing
up for frantic spending in its decaying days.

but mostly, my duties occupy the space -
this intangible commodity squeezes for place.

such metaphors would have been absurd and
bizzare to the shrieking children of the kampong days

my grandparents talked about: climbing trees that rusted
with rambutans, ankles dipped in mud burgeoning with

self-invented games, a bedlam of clucking chickens fleeing
unsuccessfully, dinner for a hut bursting with extended family.

nothing i can identify with: neither a similar event, nor
a familiar atmosphere of wild abandonment of youth.  

i exist in a time where parents knock on rooms to bring their
students nutritious chicken essence, with a stack of expectations.

what's so good about progress: when our roots are saliva-speak,
when our youth and beyond are spent before it's expiry?

much like acclimatisation, i am ashamed to reveal that,
many times i can feel alive only when i adhere to the routines in

this city of expectations.