Sunsets of a Stranger

Too many missed sunsets & the eyes
remember loneliness, the cold hull
of screens whose suns never set. Frozen
ephemereal phenomena who can a paused
waterfall impress? The child bored on the MRT
is occupied more with moving pixels, an animated
face mirroring its sunrises back to itself.

For years you've carried this sadness: whiffs
of shampoo whose owners left a blazing
scent in their wake; a sunset you will not remember
her name by; her face of inscrutable dawns no
bird has taken flight. By the crowd's pact you
will nest in the screen whose suns never set,
trace the curves of sparrows never making it home
to roost, migrate with the carriages of strange
faces mirroring your own phenomena.

Perhaps Song

Perhaps Song

Perhaps loneliness crashed like a comet
through the bus & into silent hearts,
buried itself there like a fucking Taser probe.
Perhaps it landed like a sparrow on a stray
shoulder, disrobed its owner of equilibrium
(such as the sense of telling right from left
on mornings bouncing off their axle or the
sense of splitting the hairbrush of love from lust)
or the pace in hearts gone wrong. Perhaps the ear-
bud is a worm carrying pulses of comfort
persuading truce of peace in volatile souls.
I do not know. All I know are the shadowed
wings of a little bird carrying the swish
of things settling softly in the chest & tune-
less songs taking root & rhythm there
& the hands, stilling, poise of yoga.

Neon Presence

Moon hid behind clouds and the café dimmed
its neon aura against the night. Or perhaps, it never
dimmed but shone brighter, an electric presence
shrinking the sadness of darkened terraces. Next table,
a couple traversed each other with caressing
hands, exploring territory too tender to Asian eyes.
The coffee kept me sober amongst the intoxicated
too burdened with their own excesses, tasted of burnt
toast or a heart gone bitter. Strife seemed to be the act
of sitting there without a pair of warm hands to
tend the quiet, tame the unwanted duet of crickets
and invading smooch-sounds from that couple. Empty
cups remind drinkers of choices: how their chasm curates
your choice of tea or coffee, gets filled with the froth
of beer if you choose it. I scraped back my chair, left
the couple doubled over each other in love land, left
the sight of him re-tracing secret continents on the back
of her hand, left the neon presence soon dwindled
to absence.