The first winter I ever loved
coincided with my introduction
to Summer.

Three years younger,
she had defeated China
and in her wake lay one thousand men,
mouths hung open;
straining for her ear-shot.

Every taxi driver
spent more time looking in his rear-view mirror,
every ticket collector tarried
in the purchase; a hope to extend the moment
that he could be there, with her.

Used to watch her across the office,
her pencil skirt, precise eyeliner;
the way she would smell her tea
as it brewed in the flask.

Used to stray outside her classroom,
listened to her speak Chinese
to a room of students that would listen intently
as unfamiliar tones spread
across her easy smile.

She sang her tentative songs
over vague karaoke nights,
we sang together in English;
our neighbours sang in Thai.

I took her to the mountains
on the back of my motorbike,
she talked softly in my ear;
her legs pressed close to mine.

The first winter I ever loved
coincided with my introduction
to Summer.

The most beautiful woman
I had ever seen.

I lay still beneath her friendship,
bit my tongue in misplaced passion.
I stood and stared as she walked on by,
into the arms
of anyone’s

but mine.