two cursors

two cursors we stood
characters apart on a google stage.
a4-scape a story pray tell we could,
life’s key pressed instead a turned page.

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seen by

a cry for help,
“look where i am!”
dinner sourced on yelp,
*here is tonight’s programme*

sunsets’ crimson glow,
pixels capture no more,
warmth the real memento,
swipe right: oslo filtered singapore.

blurs characterized by words,
classic, fancy, typewriter, strong.
like two buck chucks,
find me at trader joe’s yearlong.

still, a cry-
someone listen to me.
my soul code can’t simplify.
i’m down on my knees

praying that you’d open your eyes
and realize what the RGB denies.
this Story is not the whole me.

Seen by two hundred and fifty-three.

Staris

He stared up at the dynamic display, in awe, not at all fazed by the basic Calibri fonts, lack of alignment in graphics and by the occasional informational overload on the screen. Novena, Newton, Somerset. If all critics were kids, maybe the world would be a kinder place. If all critics were kids, maybe we would never make progress at all.

“Look dad, look at that, its changing!!!” The glint in his eye as bright as the display.

“Orh orh ya that’s nice”, he says, barely glancing at the display, or at his son.

How could he for his eyes were transfixed downward on his phone, one earphone out for good measure. I mean, at least the Staris display was a 2x 10″ display, why would you look at your phone?

The boy persists for a couple of moments, giving up on trying to get his dad’s attention eventually. He quietens.

He looks up at the screen still amazed, or maybe just feigning wonder to hide his hurt. Kids learn to use tablets as fast as they grow up.

How dreams take flight, or die.

A Lexington Morning

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Cheaper and better,
the US in reassuring green and white it dots.
Starbucks sprinkled like treasure,
cuppa without second thoughts.

Where Lexington and 87th,
wood and Powermats,
java and chai
meet,
so did you and I.

Stepped not a foot had I before
on Manhattan shore,
yet here were my feet guided to
for one special morning brew.

Frappes same worldwide,
but those deep green Italian eyes
and hearty laughter of the Upper East Side,
swept the island counter sunrise,
sheer Lexington bona fide.

Siren Greek mythology I was not sure,
for in front of me stood in fact an angel
luring me from opposite the Pacific azure.
Hello from the other side,
sung her name but a single vowel changed.

Alas, gone were the days passports not needed,
horizons lay unsplintered.
For now Greyhounds, Southwests and TSA
were to be heeded.

Time from sand lay fractured
as whipped cream made the macchiato whole.

Out into the sea stepped my soul,
a part lost to that Starbucks store.


I do apologise if the above is cheesy and sappy, but I figure if I am going to start this whole writing thing, then maybe it’s best that I do so from what I know best hahaha.

The above exposition most certainly did not play out the same way in the real life; it was what it was – a chance crossing of paths. But I guess what really got me to write this was just me wondering how different life would be if I was brought up somewhere else, if my parents decided to migrate elsewhere or even stay where they were. So many ifs arose after seeing the multitude of possibilities my life could have taken, but that doesn’t take away at all from what I have experienced and what I have today, and for that I’m deeply grateful. I’ll be exploring this further in subsequent posts with more depth hopefully than a unrequited-what-could-have-been poem.

But Adela, if you do see this, then just know that I really would have loved to have known you better. If only circumstances were different, if only I had more time.

classification

just like all other kingdoms,
friendship was one too.

broken into three phyla –
close, acquaintance, passerby –
of which there were many classes,
just like those vehicles that ply our streets.

not to forget the order
1st, 2nd, 3rd, forgotten.
some were family-esque,
others quite uncertain.

yet weren’t we all the same genus
the species?
so what was the darn
difference?

Table for One

Good evening, table for?

Twenty-eight:
“I don’t think we’ll find space anywhere
let our story the Botanic Gardens satiate”
Feu De Joie did our veins ensnare.

Twelve:
“Stop, stop! Just order first;
the bill-splitting formalities later shall we delve”
With brotherhood we went home reimbursed.

Eleven:
“Finally we get to the restaurant,
I thought we’d forever be bobbin'”
Yet deep down for one another they’d always wait reverent.

Five:
“When we get back teach me
how that darn fulcrum question’s answer be derived”
Friendship the solution, youthful woe’s sober whiskey.

Four:
“I can’t believe that two
years flew by, for us on life wore”
Not much remained but boy was this a pleasant impromptu!

Three:
“Come come give me the camera
go take a photo with her, hurry hurry!!!”
Alas the snap a blur but the night sheer euphoria.

Two:
“Shall we share a bottle
of Apple Cider before the revue?”
Rain couldn’t dampen our spirits, Hugo’s story rendering us hopeful.

For one, please-
I sit alone.

And from the shadows, surely, does an image form.
Slowly(,) now.

(inspired by the friendships and bonds – though not all described for fear this poem might turn too long – fostered over the years; i only pray we continue to go from strength to strength, and long into the night. and written in hope that one day i too will find the one whom i see God in.)