hall

0225 and the shut-uncertainty of an eye
stolen off sidescreen, shadows scratching
the seashell-s(cr)eams of this eight-year old shirt
saying
it’s three years on now.

i forget you everyday and
everyday i can never forget you.
i write to you in second person as a mark
of respect and as a form of deception, yet
i pixel instead of pen, contriving intimacy
despite the knowledge that
i do not know you – you do not know me.

it’s three years on now. it feels like yesterday i~train~[≠you], but i’ve changed so much and i don’t know myself and what would you say if you saw us now?

and / yet / and yet here we are,
parted by wood with creaking hinges
un-oiled.

(she, he : both, bed bound to each other) to
(he : no longer readable) to
(i : in a room, un-living, a deed poll burning bridges renaming itself hall) to
she, he, he, i,
who inhabit this habitat in habit under habitus,
she, he, he, i,
under the glare of moonlight darkness,
perspiring into sheets, coughing inwards the burning mist
; not the blue-grey fog of Nashville and pipelined borders
; nor the flurry of smudging palm trees shrouded in nostalgia
; no, here we are,
making the same mistakes in different ways :
always

always ; ;
                       ; ;
                               ; ;
                                       ; ;        

will there always be yellow-white walls & digital red lights trip-ticking faster than the second hand & the alternation of dripping dark & dilute &&&
& that exists in the everyday,
doesn’t it?

i don’t try to recall this afternoon, a lone brown cup still
comatose in the kitchen cupboard.
handle still greased, throbbing to the percussion (– / of)
an indecipherable restless stasis.

still,                                it comes. again,                            i conjure illicit cellophane diagrams because                         there are not enough chairs by the bed for me to sit,                           no more words left for my fingers on the drip.

i forget you everyday and
everyday i can never forget you.
in both worlds there will always be white.


0328 and by this time you had fallen
upwards into the other.


0334 and the telephone rings, a woman who insists on speaking not to me, but the son of Mr Ho Teow Chong, unaware that he cannot speak back.


0350 and BP 80+, 40

today is, mother tells me in uncharacteristic english,
i tell her i know that.
i don’t need another reminder.

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