I remember gazing into the abyss of starlights and sequin sparkles of your dilated pupils;
I remember listening to your sweet singsong voice when you call for my presence.

I remember the feeling of your gentle strong hands at the sides of my waist;
I remember the smell of your lingering odour that inhabited my belongings.

I remember the taste of your sweetish lips locked against mine in that long awaited period;
I remember and know that you've kept me whole all this while, to lengths too perplexed to say--

that when you now only exist as a fair lone memory,
all my five senses have gone away.

Dawn light rises above my apartment balcony
giving life and colour to my potted friends
(especially the orange of my marigolds)

The chirping of blue, yellow winged souls
resounding in my empty ears
as they hop and dance to the harmony
of my shuffling footsteps
with sunlight as their spotlight

The chug of steam exits my panelled window
my rose coffee screening its scent
onto the projection of my nose

My vinyl records shifted aside,
finding my favourite one.

Sinatra sings;
Holiday serenades,
I pick up my pencil
scribbling away
-- a perfect sunday morning to spend.

Industrialised glam, digitalised intimacy
Rich aroma, dancing lights;
implicit wonders are unexplored
as they hide beneath the headstock
obeying society's stream of thought.

Rigour movements, sundried streets
hustling and bustling with only time to beat;
withering moments drape the paved sidewalk
just like the bland orange tainted tree in
your grave backyard (which many have described to be hollow and large)

Lingering spirits have strewn themselves over your covered sheets,
cementing their curtains as the bright white light
of haven glistens above their unblinking eyes
constricted by the deafening silence,
untoned to the faint hymns of children's laughter.

"Stop to smell the roses", the wise men speak:
confidence is their ruse; do not let it deceive you.
They hide amongst the similar thousands of men,
yet never raising a head to any of them.
These are the children of our future.

Senseless to surroundings, spray them fresh air,
Move their cognitive gears to move their oil-rigged limbs;
Let their creative minds sway to the rhythm of rustling trees,
Revive the diverse culture of our people for these brainwashed folks;
Deny the irony of being consumed, when you are the consumer.

An anchor you were, weighed to the endless bed of ground
pulling me beneath surface, down into depths of the dark.

Strong as you were, I kept slipping through your intertwining cold grip --
I resurrected; I embarked
through the ripples of our refracted memories
(with the rarity of your crystalline glimmered light)

Without you -- your touch;
             I feel the surmise of the surface:
"closer", it whispers with each finger of yours unlatched from mine
further with each breath you drown.

Anchor -- my anchor, you were,
keeping me under the shore, staggered, scattered,
            away from solace
why... When you've finally let go
I am finally floating/drifting away from the light?