Depression
hit like a train.

a jolt.

derailed.

blackness.

No Survivors

When the train passed
The airport
Just now
You were
So close
For a moment
Again
Now the rain pours
On the train tracks
And I'm watching
As it falls

Noticing
I got cold feet
And the skin on
My neck hurts
Ever since I put on
This golden necklace
From my auntie
Who passed away
Before the snow
Eight weeks ago

I removed it finally
Figured it out
With difficulty
My brother put it
Around my neck
Sitting behind my back
Four hours ago

It is pretty
But it is stinging
Very much
My skin and throat

And I did not understand
Exactly
How to get out

Almost got upset
But took a break
To breathe
Amidst stinging pain
Then opened the clip
And escaped

The feeling is fading
As I pass the next station
Darkness is falling
Fireworks burn the sky
Windy rains ambush
My train from the side

Going much faster now
A window is rattling
Shrieking wheels cut
The monotonous sounds

I lost my eBook
So I can not read to
Relax and distract
The visions that grow
Beyond comprehension
And still burns my throat

Why we do things
And others
We want
We do not do
Is such a something
I don't think I
Should think about

Why my throat burns
And my heart turns
When it is you
I think about

Once mingled,
free-floating piano tunes
and
sun-harshed highway
could be a match.
The Light Rail
took its time on the causeway,
I am a passenger,
safely guarded from the
unapologetic summerness
like tourists from the safari park.
I am a outrageous punk,
perching onto handrails
lost in his romantic dream of an
impossible summer. Romeo and Juliet in my hand.
Vehicle garages rusting
along palm trees lined
railway.
This is Yuen Long. This is the outskirts
with gated dogs with feral barks,
this is a compromise between bungalows and nature.
Piano symphonies morphed into
eighties tunes
in the Call Me By Your Name soundtrack album,
and the eighties synths
draws the archived mystics,
out from avenues
that leads to villas similar to those I have sojourned.
And the world as I see it, it is beautiful.

Eight. Eleven a.m
You stood by
The shutting door
Perhaps been weeks
Perhaps been months
Glad to see you again

A disappearing friend
Tempted to connect
Yet no where to start with
Not even knowing your name

To whom, as I wrote
Only way to ink your side face
As you fade with the rush hour train

Finding myself looking for a familiar backpack, EarPods with glasses
Not caring it's sign for being late
Almost wish to see you next day
A little spark in the mundane

The dog is nine years
three months
six days old
and still counting,
the old man sits and counts up in
a chair rocking on an old porch,
creaking floorboards faded wooden again
from turquoise,
turning raw in their old age.
Parts of the floorboard have chipped away beneath
the chairs wasted slats
and yet the old man still sits, counting
down
time
like a train whistling at a
trespasser on the tracks
like a stray hair curling from
it's braid
get off those tracks
'cause you know it's not your place.
All we ever do is rot back down to
the floors we came from
and maybe
all we end up doing is completing a week
and then we're not counting anymore,
and maybe
the chair doesn't rock back to dust
and forth to
nine years
three months
and six days old
and we sit on our old porches
watching the train tracks and
maybe we know it's not the
time or the place
but a train whistles at the
trespasser
and we watch the young girl
and we count down, looking away
when it happens.
But we're not counting any more
and we sink into the porches we came from.