brewed from memory.
I met you over a cup of kopi.
Rather, two kopis, my lobang
of initiative to lure you closer
into the cozy ambience of table talk.
Sips of brown murk, shale burning
our tongues. I coaxed your history
out of your initial reluctance to
lay out your life like a map, like kaya.
Later, you lay a hand on my lap –
we molded our lives into one thick toast.
Then long beach walks, the sun blazing
your scrawny skin a tanned brown.
I licked your hand the color of biscuits.
Fingers – your salt and shingle filled my mouth;
the evening sun pooled around your thighs.
Then, I failed to fill you with the thrust
of my promises for tomorrow. Seagulls
forgot the special names we gave each of them
but seagulls. Kopi tasted of distant surfs
from different seasides. What resides is the
murk in cups, sentiments the sand has left
in my scoops to build a castle for two.
