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Jing Xi Lau Sep 16
My father disapproves of him,
Because of his color.

If he were the color yellow
Like the mid-summer sun,
Or the shade of December snow,
If he were only as tan,
As Santa Monica sand,
My father's stubbornness,
Might've waned.

He is neither sunshine,
Nor snowflake.
He is the solemn night sky,
The dark side of the moon,
Too vast to be contained,
To be ignored,
To be understood.

You see,
People who don't understand the night,
Fear it.
They fear what it holds,
What it hides.

But I am a creature of the night,
I hang myself,
Like a moon,
Over the canvas of his body.
I spread myself,
Like a blanket of stars,
Across the nakedness,
Of the night.

My father disapproves of him,
Because of his color.
He thinks I'll change my mind,
But wait till he reads this poem.
Jing Xi Lau Sep 14
When he leaves,
What he leaves behind,
She knows.

When love is gone,
Where does it go?
She wonders.
Jing Xi Lau Sep 14
She dreamt of him last night,
His arm around her waist,
Her skirt rippling in starlight,
As they danced with a feverish haste.

She whispered "I miss you,"
And placed her hand on his cheek,
His skin was a midnight blue,
A shade from the sun which she seeks.

His warmth kept her alive,
As she blissfully gasped for air,
He took her for a long drive,
Ran his fingers through her hair.

She felt more awake than ever,
As she drifted further into her dream,
Insomnia a wasted endeavor,
Swallowed by a river of moonbeam.

"Please stay here forever," he implored,
But hours could not stretch into days,
So she left through the backdoor,
Eyes wide open and head in a haze.
  Sep 14 Jing Xi Lau
Alice
It's just that
i'd like someone to
write for me
just once
i'd like to be the object of affection
i'd like for someone to find
that beauty my mother keeps telling me
i have inside
i'm not complaining
but you see
i'd just like to be the
poem
and not the poet
for once
Jing Xi Lau Sep 2
I saw you,
In the bustling pantry,
Among the office lunch crowd,
Your eyes met mine,
For the first time.
Send help.

I soon forgot,
All about you,
Didn't know your name,
Didn't think twice of you,
Till I saw you again.
Send help.

Your voice was warm,
And so was your gaze,
My smile was wide like a child's,
Till I caught a glimpse,
Of a ring around your finger.

Send help.
Jing Xi Lau Sep 2
Our forever is built on,
A temporary palace,
With paper-thin walls,
Our bed a foam mattress.

Our forever is sprawled across,
The stained carpeted floor,
Beneath our ***** laundry,
Messes we choose to ignore.

Our forever is cracked into,
Every omelet and French toast,
Served with a glass of cold juice,
And kisses on the nose.

Our forever is written on,
Every inch of your midnight skin,
Each stubble and razor bump like Braille,
A love language I've never seen.

Our forever is tested,
By time zones and distance,
Will our palace walls crumble,
Or stand in defiance?

Our forever is put on trial,
By people who shouldn't bother,
A xenophobic aunt,
And an uncle who's a pastor.

Our forever is cursed,
By a father's daily prayer,
Wrapped in his own infidelity,
The quiet naysayer.

Our forever is assembled,
From sticks and stones hurled at us,
Will it endure hurricanes and haters,
Or is it just a temporary palace?
Jing Xi Lau Mar 8
Rain sprinkling on our glasses.
Wind rattling our coats.
We were walking down an unfamiliar street,
Gravel crunching beneath our feet.
You smiled but then you stopped,
A curve that wasn't fully stretched.
You pulled out your hand from your coat pocket,
Began counting on your fingers.
Counting the days we have left.

One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Stop.

Maybe if you stopped counting,
Numbers would cease to exist.
If numbers ceased to exist,
Whatever we have left,
Could only be measured by moments,
Not days,
Hours,
Or minutes.
But moments.

In each moment,
A baby is born into this mess of a world,
But is readily embraced by it.
In each moment,
A schoolgirl is crying alone in a bathroom stall,
Waiting to be saved from isolation.
In each moment,
A couple shares their first kiss.
In each moment,
Beer bottles are smashed,
Wives are beaten,
Children threatened.
In each moment,
A dreamer stops dreaming,
A poet stops writing.
In each moment,
Hellos are idly uttered,
Goodbyes are not said.

How does one count every moment,
On fingers that are numbered?

Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Stop.

You didn't understand.
How could you?
So in that moment,
I grabbed your hand,
Held it in mine.
Our fingers intertwined.

Five.
Ten.
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