Reconnecting

Sometimes you don't realise how much you miss a person [read: omg, so! damn.! much.!] until you start talking to them after absolute light-years and remembering the utterly absurd conversations that got you through sporadic bouts of dramatic teenage angst. How could we have not stayed in touch?!?!

So dear K, I thank God for the mistaken text that started this unlikely friendship. Thank youuu for being that awesomely quirky friend whom I'd send random email rants (and maybe cookies) to 10 years down the road (:

Dial Tones

I guess the phone numbers I remember - not memorise, mind you - speak volumes about how important the person at the other end of the line is in my life, regardless of their actual presence in recent times. & you can't forget them digits when you try because your brain pulls a "Don't think of a purple elephant" stunt on you.

In denial about denial.
Is that recursive?

Dear Poem

I haven’t written you in a long time.

A sudden window winks open.

The sky has my father’s

beaten face. I missed you. I missed how

you comforted me the way you

comfort me now with your wide-eyed

lucidity, the languor of the patient

unfurling of yourself, luxuriously

disregarding the latest betrayal

like a headline stark across the front

page of my face. But I will not

write about it here, along the margin

of your insides, although you are in love

with such unsung facts – the pearly whitehead

on my chin, that faint odour from my feet

scaling the air’s ladder into the previous line –

and why not? Who cares if someone else

would never believe that such things

may not also be poetic?

But now I want only to talk of you.

How many like you have I already

composed with such authentic chords

of truth, loud and clear within them.

My beloved one-night-stand

who never stops coming

to love me at all the right times:

after unbearable grief

or after every rare moment

of contentment, even joy.

You who never lie except when I

want you to, if only to augment a distant

but more vital truth. I love you,

dear poem. I love you

because you hold pain up upon

the quiet of your palm, raising it

so I might see it in the best possible light.

- Cyril Wong

ANGST.

& I can't figure out why.