we went to philly and it rained. i spent most of the time running through puddles and taking blurry pictures, of trees, of the sky, of beautiful big buildings that seemed so strange to my coldgreyconcrete eye. it was weird. i liked it.

i think flowers are *******, you see we went to philly and i saw flowers, which was strange to me-cities dont have flowers, you see. we have night markets and the smell of that weird boiled egg tea and peoplepeoplepeople and definitely not flowers (except in the new year because of course there are flowers in the flower market and also sometimes up alleyways there'll be a scarybutnice old lady selling them, maybe with her grandson there too). but regardless of what cities should have and what cities should not have, there were flowers. and they were bright and many and i stared at them long and hard and accusing and inquisitive. they didnt stare back. and so, i repeat, flowers are *******.

so yeah we went to philly but i feel kindofbad because we didnt really go to philly we more went to one-no two, three? (if the parking garage counts)-streets because we were there for this one restaurant but i saw this one place with a bunch of flags and some buildings and took a photo with a random landmark so it counts right? (i think thats all cities can be for some people, walk down nathan road visit a night market shop at pacific place maybe go up to the peak and youve seen all of hong kong right? its rather easy to quantify a city if you put it that way i suppose) but no, as a fellow city dweller i know more than most that a city exists in the cracks between pavements and small market stalls and the lightness in your chest when you become a regular at starbucks and people go out of their way to help you even if theyre busy, that a city exists when you can walk on the bustling pavements like theyre your own hardwood floors and look at an office tower and go-oh samantha works here and thats what a city really is.

and that's pretty much it. we went to philly.

large panel windows with a view of brick beyond
white (pristine, pure)
untouched fantasies
and
compromised realities


draped in sunlight it tastes bitter like
unaged marble, freshly cut and hung
(on a languid pointe you advance
    — a graceless ballonné)


there’s a peace to be found
in quiescent words dripping in honey   sounding across an empty room
sinking to the soles of your feet
as you dip your toes into discarded symphonies
painting them across my heart.

there is fire licking at your
      calves. tongue hot
      and heavy (taste me
      where my soul ends and
      my heart begins, i think
      you tell me. find the places
      hidden to even my eyes,
      a prayer, a whisper).

-

AFTERTHOUGHT: i can shift the heft of the sky and its sire onto my shoulders, shape them into wings under your gaze, let them watch the fire like you watch a ritual (it burns with ancient fury, older than my words could ever dream).

youre a city girl raised on

fantasy-realities of ivy leagues and

imminent success your 
only scars are pimple scars

remainders of a childhood
of 
vaguesuccesses.

exceptional, they call you, who were

bred and groomed for this title

talent is a spectre that haunts

you and your sibling and every

otherchild

born into that grey area between

happy and sad.

you have the world beneath your

dainty soft feet but its never

enough to bring you to the summit of

the desires (expectations) that
push down on you like

a suffocating cloud that waters your eyes
   and 
chokes your lungs. youre afraid to leap

up (out of sight out of mind out of the safe cradle
of a mothers wisdom and a fathers love and

the familiarity of being a tightly coiled rope ready to snap)

and into a sky where suddenly that weight is

lifted and you feel light

       (the weight is comfortable, it keeps you grounded)

                                    and perhaps
that you were moulded with

this constant belief that you [are/must be] the best is

the __ (only/best) reason to stop yourself.

when others have problems that seem so

much grander and you in your protective bubble

that even a city cannot permeate (you ignore the sight of beggars

or thieves or poverty and avert your eyes

from anything that contradicts

the perceptions that you have, it doesnt
matter if youre in a city

plagued by pain and exploitation

as long as you can live in your (steel tinted) dreams)

you wish that you had that claim to fame (isnt it sad that

were so desperate for relevance we
selfishly wish for suffering, trading your own

trivial vices).

but you [dont understand/cant understand/will never understand]

no matter how many times you
sympathise and complain and romanticise.

youre just a pimple-scarred city girl carrying

a world of ideals and expectations on

                   your shoulders.