frond

I heard your voice again today. It was everything I remembered it to be—from the genuine “how are you doing” to the fake-ass “I hate you, bitch”—it felt like home. It was the popping and crackling of bubbling hot oil, deep-frying sui gows a few feet away from us; but it was also the fizzing and foaming of crisp, freshly drawn beer just seconds away from our faces. It was the whoop-whoop-whoops that shouted louder than the thump-thump-thumps of the clubs we’d visit when I wanted the attention of men; yet it whispered softer than the there-there-theres when you’d pat my back after having seen the worst of men in clubs.  It was the angry, hateful beer-fueled discussions against religion and homophobia and racism and sexism and ignorance… before it resigned into disappointed, hopeless tear-filled prayers for humanity.

It was the voice that would cut as deep as Beth Gibbons; and then filled the cracks like Billy Corgan’s.

Your voice; it has always been the perfect balance of opposites. And when I heard it today, out of the blue, I knew it was my lucky day. I knew, I just knew, that I had to keep the memory of your voice, folded up neatly, and tucked away in my back pocket. So that whenever I felt like my life was out of balance, I could just reach into my back pocket, unfold this memory, and everything will be fair again.

But… I’ve unfolded this memory so many times, that the creases have disappeared.

I wish I could hear your voice, once again.

light

Oh, do I love this time of the night,
When all is quiet and dreams take flight,
Nobody cares about my worries or plight,
Or even whatever is wrong or right.

Oh, do I love this time of the night,
When spirits fly much higher than a kite,
Nothing matters but my line of sight,
It all makes sense, but just not quite.

Oh, do I love this time of the night,
When ghosts creep and monsters bite,
But this darkness, it doesn’t fright,
I am more afraid when it is bright.

under the bridge

Do you remember those warm afternoons we spent at my house, sweating under the ceiling fan, watching its blades quiver more and more as we stared at it longer and longer? We could stare at it for days on end, nary a word between us. But it was never completely silent, was it? The whirs of the ceiling fan would echo with the cacophony of sounds around us—the periodic bark of the neighbour’s clearly unstable dog, the laboured growl of the school bus making its after-school route, the insecure roar of the odd motorbike going past its speed limit, the annoying squeals of children playing outside before dinnertime, and the envious voice in my head telling me I could never be as happy as those squealing fucking children.

Do you remember how I would try to drown that noise by blasting a cassette? I didn’t have much of a selection of cassettes to choose from, (because it would take me two to three months to save enough money to buy one album, oh you squealing children have it so lucky these days) but I would rather listen to the same music on repeat than any other sound in the world. Because amidst all of that noise, I found a sound I could call home.

Nothing mattered and everything made sense the moment the music flowed through the speakers and into my ears. It felt like a swollen lake had burst at the seams, her insides overflowing and spilling into me, filling me with a reason—the reason I didn’t know I was looking for until I was looking for it. And I’ve been looking for it ever since.

I even tried to get your help to find it. Do you remember? Do you remember me singing badly, hoping you’d sing along with me? Do you remember me finding all these tracks on Spotify and playing it for you? Do you remember me picking up the guitar to literally play it for you instead?

Of course you don’t. Because I have arrived at the stark realisation that these are my memories, not yours. And you will never understand, as you were never there.

marriage

We walked side-by-side as if we were equals, but you were your own, while I was just trying to find mine. You were the exciting scent behind the corner of a page on the right, while I was the musty tattered one left behind. You are a stroll on a path paved by gods, and I’m merely a pebble embedded in your shoe.

Yet here I am, with the audacity to wish you were less beautiful and I was less distant. “Maybe we could meet in the middle?” I whispered into the swells of the waves, hoping its dips would be deep enough to carry the weight of my insecurities into the lightness of your being.

“Maybe you would just hold my hand?” you said.

And so we drifted side-by-side, as if we were equals; until one day, we finally were.

change of plans

It was twelve thirty in the afternoon on a wet and cold day. There was already a long line of brightly coloured umbrellas waiting outside the restaurant when she arrived, but she walked to the back of the queue anyway.

“Forty minutes to an hour,” she heard a waiter curtly inform the umbrella ahead of her. Normally, she would have walked off, went to the nearest convenience store, picked up a box of refrigerated food, paid for it, declined for it to be reheated, hastily finished it, and slid the packaging into the trash can before stepping out of the store for a cigarette. Twenty minutes—tops.

Any other day, she would have done all that. But not today.

Today was planned—days, weeks, months ago. She took a day off for today. Today was meant to pay bills, clear debts; tidy up the house, clear rubbish; run errands, clear lists. You know, just get shit fucking sorted. That’s why it all had to be done today. She didn’t have the luxury of coming back another day or time when it was less busy. So she waited, and waited, and waited…

And suddenly she’s loudly slurping up the last bit of ramen broth as if it was her last bowl ever. She couldn’t even know for sure if everyone was looking at her, because her face was in the bowl. Should she slap on a sheepish smile and apologise? Nah, who the fuck cares about her anyways? She put the bowl down, wiped her eyebrows, and burped loudly.

Now she’s at the train station platform. Wait—how did she get here? No matter. She had to be here anyway.

The sounds of an approaching train danced around her ears. They tickled her insides, called her to come in, and persuaded her to stay. Her heart pounded so hard she felt the reverberations rattle her bones and turn her guts upside down. She gagged trying to resist the urge to vomit. The train is so fucking close; too close to stop in time. The time is now. Now! Go!

Suddenly, she remembered that she forgot to wash her bedsheets. What if someone found it and thought she led a filthy life behind closed doors? What if they ran a blacklight over it? Oh fuck.

She stopped dead in her tracks, half-wishing she was.

The train doors opened, and she moved aside to let passengers alight before she realised the coach was empty. The loud warning beeps from the train jolted her feet, making her jump into the train. I guess I’ll just go home and wash my bedsheets, she thought.

egg tart

We had nothing, you and I. We were down to our last ten dollars. The ten dollars we could’ve saved if we had both denied ourselves the cigarettes we smoked in place of lunch and dinner. The ten dollars we could’ve saved if we had refused that ice-cold bottle of lemon tea we earned because our throats were parched from smoking. The ten dollars we could’ve saved if we had walked home instead of taking the metro because we just—very simply—wanted to smoke (but we couldn’t in the coach).

So we sat here with nothing, you and I. Well, nothing except for regrets.

But we sat here, you and I, in the shadows, ignored and forgotten. And we inhaled as much as our lungs could muster, so we could exhale clouds upon clouds of smoke that veiled our view so all that we could see were lights at the end of the tunnel.

It was worth it.

yamazaki

There we were, time travellers from the future. And there she was, from years and years past; indexed and bottled in different shades of gold. She emptied out her insides into an hour glass, and we swirled her in between our fingers before we inhaled her beauty and sipped on her youth, first until we were forgotten and then until we were completely erased from memory.

cycle

Thin slivers of afternoon sun had pierced through the gaps of the thatched roof above us, and painted her face in strips of gold and black. I had fixed her a drink earlier—whisky on the rocks with a twist of lemon—and placed it just far enough away from her so she had to lean forward to reach it, only because I loved watching her body play peekaboo between the light and shadows when she moved.

So I watched as daylight danced its hours on her, its thin golden rays like nimble, young fingers finding its place on an antique piano. I did this until her glass ran dry and dusk was nigh. It was time to say goodbye, but I didn’t want to. I just followed her silhouette until it became a faint memory in the last sputters of moonlight just before dawn. Then I fixed another whisky on the rocks with a twist of lemon, hoping she would once again appear with the sun.

And I waited.

mole

Hey, I miss you. I know it’s been a while since we talked or texted, but the problem is I think of you far too often that it becomes far too easily overlooked. I guess I grew so accustomed to you being a part of me, that I forget you weren’t.

I know, right. Excuses.

It’s like that benign mole I discovered on the sole of my foot one fine day as I was placing my foot against my forearm (to prove that the length of your foot is REALLY the same length as your forearm, duh). It got me thinking—has it always been there? Or was this something new? It’s definitely always been there. I’m sure of it. Or not.

And 20 years later, I’m suddenly thinking about it now, wondering how this mole escaped my thoughts for so many years.

But you, obviously, aren’t a benign mole. Haha. You’re more than that.

You’re my finger pressed on the end of the sentence; giving me time to wander before returning to the story as soon as I lifted that finger. That very same finger that hovers above the Enter button, contemplating for a million years on whether it should send this text or gulp another shot of whisky for the courage to do so. You’re my fingers tightening their grasp around yours, hoping that the worst will disappear as soon as I loosen my grip.

You are more important than I could ever be grateful for.

And yes, it’s my fault for not keeping in touch.

But I still miss you.

nanya

So there we were, on the edge of a cliff, at the furthest ends of the world. We had left all caution behind, turned off all notifications, and notified no one of our whereabouts. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing did. We just had to be here—you and I—standing before a crumpled sheet of sea spread carelessly across the ocean floor like a warm blanket on a cold Saturday morning.

Did it matter that we didn’t have a plan? Who knows? We were content just watching the winds impregnate the waves, filling every one of its swells and sighs with the breath and depth of stories come and gone.

We became spectators in the front row, exposed and slowly corroding with each wave. We became layers and layers of what’s to come, will be gone, and left. We became these jagged rocks, standing the test of time for no other reason than to just be here.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? We were content.