Do You Remember

do you remember

But the truth is that I miss you like a hole in the head, the way Hachiko waited for Professor Ueno years after his death. How the moon orbits the earth but could never touch it. I miss our late night conversations and I miss us talking about school and life and  games and songs and the virtues of eating instant noodles at 1 am; I miss our goodnight ritual where we competed to send 3 zzz emojis to each other and you know it was stupid but I miss it. I miss all the advice you gave me and do you remember the time when we went out for ice cream and afterwards we sat in the library talking about personality types; do you remember our bus journey back afterwards because I remember sitting with you at the back, I remember everything. I remember you told me you didn’t want to join council but rather the soccer team and I remember saying that was a pity but I was glad you were chasing your desires. I miss when I told you I didn’t know how to deal with dating in general and you laughed when I said I wouldn’t know if there was a specific time to water the boyfriend, or something. But all these memories are memories for a reason so I don’t know why I’m still sad, why there is still a hole in my lungs when you were supposed to be over 4 months ago. I miss you and I hope you’re happy but you probably are because you don’t have to help this mess of a girl who still doesn’t know how to deal with her self-esteem issues. I wish we still existed. I really, really do.

writing exercise

I stepped onto the sand, the cool sea breeze a sigh on my face. 4 am, it seemed, was a good time to be out on the beach because nobody was around to watch me walk into the water. The tides lap at my feet like a soothing mother, something I needed after the draining school week. I lie down with my feet still in the water. Like this I can stare up into the black sky, smell the sea salt, feel the call of the ocean. I have to remind myself I am not the ocean. I will not be controlled by the pull of the moon’s gravity. I will not dissolve into foam like the little mermaid.

on love, and falling in love with it

some nights I look at my hands and wonder what it’d be like to have somebody’s fingers intertwined with mine, how it would feel to have a warm body pressed against mine in the mornings after I wake up. some nights I read love poems and think about the way I’ve always hesitated to write one because I don’t know what it feels like to be so in love that anywhere is home when I’m with them, even when it’s 3 am and we’re stuck waiting for a delayed plane or when we’re eating uncooked instant noodles in our new apartment or when we’re calling each other from opposite sides of the world, separated by miles and miles of sky and space and distance. some nights I just think about writing and how I’d like to write an anthology of poetry about them. I’d call it ‘things you said’, and it would be part of every poem’s title. things you said at the kitchen table. things you said when you thought I was asleep. things you said before tipping my chin up to press your lips to mine. things you said while trying to find the coffee machine at seven in the morning. I think my favourite one would probably be ‘things you said you would never do for me but did them anyway’. but some nights, I think I’m just in love with the idea of love more than anything else.

writing about writing

written for day 2 of the poetry tag

some days you are a romance writer, writing about love as if you are well-versed in the realm of heartache: five ways to fall in love                       with love                       on love                       over love                       out of love five rules to follow when you date a boy who looks at you like you painted the sky in all its brilliant shades of blue five paths to take so you don’t step on the shards during the aftermath of a break                              up (and a thousand more to take so you do.) some days you write books for adults who want to be children: you tell of the feeling of chasing the wind in a brick-red courtyard, the taste of dreams both near and far (astronaut journalist roadsweeper beggar) the smell of your parents’ clothes, a dizzying sweet scent of comfort and home. but most days you don’t write. instead you think about writing, about how you aren’t so much reader or writer but a reservoir of thirst that cannot be quenched by merely delving into a book; how the longing to write is ever-present in the blood in your veins, the crook of your fingers, the skin of your palm. most days, you write about writing.

SPWM Day 7: (not) a midsummer night’s dream

prompt 1: woo your favourite poet. prompt 2: write a ghazal. bonus: post two poems.

DISCLAIMER: this is entirely un-serious. it is not poetry. i would like to tell you i tried. and i did try, except that this was the result. i’m sorry to all the shakespeare lovers out there i have truly sinned pls forgive me [falls to the ground crying]

last night i dreamt that shakespeare was in love with me. in the dream, i woke up to find him trying to turn on my laptop. i asked him what he was doing, and he replied, “why, m’lady, i woke up this beautiful morning and thought of thy beautiful face. but i could not find any paper nor wood with which to remember thy beauty, and so i am here, using this piece of technology thou owns.” i pulled his hand away from my laptop gently. “william, darling, i’m sorry, but as much as you understand how my laptop functions, i too understand your language.” his moustache was twitching. “does thou not comprehend the language of love? fear not! upon this ground i stand on, i shall give you a poem of love.” “hoe don’t do it-” “shall i compare thee to a summer’s day? thou art more lovely and more…” he looks at the smudged writing on his hand. “……desperate.” “oh my god.” i tear up a little. when did william learn to meme? “my lady, your tears are to your face as rain is to a garden filled with flowers. but your garden is eternal, and only grows more beautiful with the changing seasons.” “william, i am having a moment. do not tell me i look beautiful while crying, my nose turns red,” i tell him sternly, while trying to recall when he had gone on tumblr. “but a nose by any other colour would smell just as well,” he answers solemnly, stroking his beard. i put a hand to his chin. “crave that beard like a goat which craves that mineral,” i whisper. “you…you are the first person to tell me you crave my beard,” he clutches a hand to his chest. “o my mistress, where have you been all my life?” “unborn,” i tell him. he soldiers on. “without you, my life is memeingless.” OH NO, A PUN, my inner self yells at me. and then i wake up. - shakespeare isn’t even my favourite poet it’s literally just bad fanfiction don’t ask me what i was thinking when i wrote this, the answer is nothing

SPWM Day 1: homecoming

prompt: write a poem featuring the year 2065. bonus 1: use the words: queue, dance, grave, swamp, arrest, love. bonus 2: write the poem as a liwuli or one of its formal variants.

you must rest more / do they feed you well / i will cook curry for dinner on friday / come home soon / to where i await your return her eyes search for a splash of green and then the doorbell rings mom, did you miss me the way i missed you?