a eulogy for a dreamy sunday afternoon

i. sunlight seeping in borrows a rosy hue from tinted window glass, dancing off your tousled hair.

ii. the stereo murmurs a dull synth-pop tune to colour the silence, inside the lines.

iii. buildings we pass melt into a nondescript blur, like abstractions of ink on a drenched book.

iv. the weight of my baggage surrenders to the one tugging at my chest. i know i am not half-dreaming.

v. there’s only so much i can read from the back of your neck, like newspapers shrouded by the dark of morning.

iv. you mean so many things to me, things no tongue could explain. not even to myself.

iii. this silence amidst noise is killing me. i would rather burst into a rhapsodic wail, out of tune.

ii. this moment will not yield to captivity. like a firefly in a jar, the only glow i see is put out by the last breath of a dying dream.

i. heart and soul, mind and soul, maybe it’s time to let this firefly go?

circus caravan, always on the go

words taste bitter in december when
urns are emptied, filled, lost, doubled till
small talk becomes no talk.

this year, the gap on the shelf
of a borrowed book reminds:
keep the moment when the acrobat
freezes on the trapeze, statuesque
marbled eyes locked in the space between
one second and the next,
feasting on the contradiction of being motionless
yet on top of the world.

this year, the gap on the shelf
of a borrowed book reminds me just that.

only a time too vulnerable to be measured in minutes
prevents seizures of lunacy when
young things trickle in rivulets, engulfing the space
only you and i knew.
they could never learn of
a time too vulnerable to be measured in minutes. foolish, whimsical young things don’t speak in sepia
like we did.

deep breaths.
smiles in january will be sweeter,
the kinds that are followed by birdsongs.
i know this in threes, twos,

ones.