I recognize people by their walk

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