sing singapore
it seems with the wind whistling maddeningly throughout the day
reclining, as a child would
soaking in the rays, ankles laced together
we dream different dreams on the same expanse of sofa
back to sunny singapore i go
an apparition of pastels and simmery heat and joy and fear and hatred;
back to the green and the black and the white
to the spongy green lawns and whiplash laughter and the
devil-may-care-ness of youth
in my hands i hold a beacon (a frisbee, red as a siren’s lips and teeth)
swivel back and forth back and forth
looking around me
find a space
release
in my hands i hold a box of blueberry confessions
and the dying remnants of a setting sun
hearts beating closer and closer
half-drunk on friendship and trust
in my hands i hold a bolster unlodged wedged
between us, cool where my skin doesn’t touch
the same bright sun greets my face
the same sun that followed me to singapore but
here the lack speaks louder than anything else
for they’re an ocean away, not a moment away)
home is where the heart is, then just so that
home is in a dozen different places
scattered across the pacific
sentimentality, for a country you
never used to like; the wind croons on
i get off the sofa
🐝 - Boy do I miss