it is yours:
swagger gentled but
you – still metres ahead.
I do not see your face
but I recognize you over and over
as you cut steep through the crowd
and taper away.
the smallness of your figure
grows my faint vision –
it must be you.
yet my faith is vapour –
you are from a world long dead.
you are a monument
I erected by childhood graves
in a cemetery I do not visit.
you were my first god,
perhaps – the first source
of love I stood and stared at.
I poured my childish emotions
behind you by your feet where
you would not turn to see them.
it is your hair and your build,
your pale skin stretched over all:
you are still the rice paper lantern,
you are still the moon-made boy,
still the quiet foreign Singaporean –
familiar and incomprehensible.
I do not remember how much
of my harshly burning face you saw.
if you recall my folly and exile –
pray never acknowledge me.
if you do, do not talk past with me –
hence do not speak at all.
be quiet, be still metres ahead,
hide the visage of the rice paper lantern –
allow it to disappear with the moon.
very indulgent but i always indulge in the past
very indulgent and i want to move on so this is somewhat a stammering, only briefly edited outpouring
this was much longer than expected