‘Madly’: That’s how desperately I’m trying
To transcend time and distance,
To transport myself through associative memory:
An autumn song for autumn memories,
I’d forgotten that autumn is about the approaching end
And colours that don’t last.
‘Madly,’ I’m missing the experience
And illusion of re-experience.

‘I Can’t Have You’: Not mine to belong to
But I thought, perhaps,
I could carry this topia within me
Until the end,
Even if it’s only in this extended play.

‘The Way Into You’: The bridge
To that magical year, to the frozen past.
With each re-visit, do I tinker with this place?
It starts to come back in fragments.
As I try to string them together,
Further cracks appear from my effort
To intervene.

‘Siren’: The end.
The closure I hadn’t anticipated;
The alarm bells when I realise
I’m not reliving that place,
But playing a Sims game in my head.
The bridge to That Time
Is gone.

#NowPlaying: The Mood – EP


Winter Has Ended

Trying to prolong your winter was like
Trying to stop a snowflake from melting
In the heat of our hands
By staying out in the cold, risking ourselves.

It was selfish of us to keep you here,
When all you wanted was to walk into
A spring where we can’t follow.

Frail, failing body and fading consciousness,
You were a winter prisoner craving freedom,
That sweet release – relief – from the pain and weight
Of living.

Is it warmer where you are?
Do they have seasons there too,
Or do you exist in a blissful beginning,
An eternity outside of time?

We just wanted you to stay with us
A little longer.
Here with us.
Winters aren’t the same without you.


#NowPlaying – Goodbye Winter

“I knew that her little wave was not going to last and soon she would join the sea again, and even though I know you can’t hold on to water, I still gripped her fingers a little more tightly to keep her from leaking away.” – Ruth Ozeki, A Tale for the Time Being

We Were Friends

Opposite ends of the bridge:
That flash of recognition, connection,
Immediate, willed disconnection.
The roaring traffic is at once
Amplified and muffled.

Ten feet;
Of the hundreds of countries,
Of the thousands of cities in all the world,
What are you doing in mine?
A chance encounter
Both dreamed of and dreaded.

Eight feet;
Eyes averted? Or perhaps not.
You don’t deliberately avoid
A stranger’s eyes like that.
Just a stranger, I remind myself.

Six feet;
The empty seat on the bus
That I’d claimed as mine,
Next to the curly-haired boy.

Four feet;
Two of the shortest in class,
We used to compare heights.
Basketball matches, friendly rivalry.

Two feet;
Moving in amber,
Memories bleeding sepia.

Parallel lines:
Opposite directions.
Passing by without indication
Of disturbance.


A/N: I’ve been having a writer’s block for the longest time, it was getting really frustrating because I was both afraid of coming up with something that didn’t meet my expectations, and of actually starting. So this is going to be the start of my writing project. I’ll call it #NowPlaying. I’m not sure how regularly I can commit to this, but basically, I’ll try to write a response piece regarding a film/show/episode/song/music video I watch.

‘We Were Friends’ was inspired by the music video for the song ‘If ~ また逢えたら.’ I really liked the scene at end in which one of the members of the band and the girl walk right past each other on the bridge, so I wanted to write on that.

Out of Reach

The familiar slinks, darts, rubs itself
Against my mind’s eye, purrs coyly.
It’s an entire world, living, expanding
Inside me.

I’ve tried time and again to catch it,
To pin down this universe
Onto the blank white before me.
It hisses, swipes at my reaching hands,
Dashes into the dark
Recesses of my mind.

It shows itself, those taunting green eyes glinting,
When I’m least prepared: without pen,
Or in my sleep; slipping through my memory like smoke,
Whenever I can’t pin it down.

I lunge, weapon in hand.
My pen leaves a trail of black,
Glistening like the fur of the creature,
The universe, which I’ve killed into reality:
Broken down into inadequate words.


I thought I had forever.
I thought you had forever.
Always present, from the beginning of my time,
I’d forgotten your clock was ticking too.

You always appeared timeless that
I’d forgotten you were a Time Being.
I’d dismissed your fear of eternal night:
Knowing you were fading,
Not knowing you were fading away.

Was I wrong in wanting to live,
In seizing what felt like my only chance to
Explore the wider world outside
the bubble of home and Homeland?

The last bond of blood’s been cut:
The only reason for this obligatory pingponging,
Now that the clock – your clock – has stopped ticking.
I’m out of chances, I’m out of time.

If this is what freedom feels like,
Groundless, boundless. Uncertainty.
(Relief? Guilt.)
Then perhaps I don’t want it.
All I want is one more chance,
Or more time. More of your time.
More time for you.
The impossible,
Now that you’re gone.


Some say that to come home
You need to take the long route,
Circle the world to realise
Home was the haven of familiarity.
Halfway across the world,
I’d missed home too.

Coming back wasn’t setting down my bag
And blissfully embracing the familiarity
Of ten years in a single place.
It was the realisation that Home
Was no longer where I felt at home.

I thought I’d found it.
I thought I could plant myself
In the soil of spatial stability,
But I was wrong.

What’s it like to have a stable sense of home?
All I want is to uproot myself,
Give myself the illusion of agency
As I set out to look for permanence.

Lost Boys

The call came that fateful day
Which I imagine tugged you miles apart
And pulled you across the sea;
Your duties as mother and daughter in tension.
You became failed mother to us,
But Mother to your nation.
Only half our blood.

You returned to your motherland,
But couldn’t return as our mother,
The threat of exile looming over your head,
The threat of being a failed daughter.
I guess you were never ours to keep.

Two lost boys with a father fading,
And a mother erased from our family portrait
To emerge the face of her country –
Your face all over the news, on the walls of strangers’ homes,
But missing before the hearth you were needed.

The burden of your family legacy
You chose over the ones left behind –
We couldn’t keep you.
You didn’t belong to us exclusively anymore,
Or perhaps, you never did.

There’s no word to define our state
Of late father and gone mother.
If Peter Pan could whisk us away,
Stop time for us while your life progressed
At the dizzying speed of your kingdom’s,
Perhaps we could return to a faded you,
Your duties done, (you’d wait for us
As we’d waited our youths away)
So we could be your children again.

A/N: I’m not trying to be political here, nor am I passing judgment. This poem was inspired by a conversation my friends and I had with our hosts in Oxford.


This country has claimed me.

When I first arrived, I hated everything:
The misconceptions, the slang
And the struggle of climbing over the barrier
Of the same language distorted, mangled,
Alien and unfamiliar.

I didn’t notice the roots growing,
Borne of memories and the people
Who pulled me over the barrier
I’d built around my heart,
As they wove their way through
Cracks in the concrete soil.

Nine years, and I’ve blended in.
I claim the label that isn’t lawfully mine
According to the rules of legislation.
But the rules of my heart say,
Claim me, as your people did.
Claim me, as I’ve claimed the title
Of one finally settled.

Watch as I put down the home
I’d carried around on my back:
The burden of a child uprooted twice.
My search has ended.

Open Letter

It’s been eleven years since
I sat in that classroom
In front of your desk,
Or even as a part of that un-Tabled Round
Reading out loud:
The only times I’d dared to raise my voice
Above a whisper
Because you gave me strength.

It was just a year,
And what a world you showed us
Uninspired children.
I still feel echoes of that
Fantastical year
Of Middle-earth and Sherlock,
Of Knights and Narnia,
All the more when I might be closest to you
Yet I don’t know where to look.

I still search for you
In books, in poems,
In my favourite teachers,
Wishing one day to see you again
Just to say, ‘Thank you’
In hopes your answer won’t be,
‘Who are you?’


The best and worst thing about moving away
Is nobody knows who you are:
Rebirth, reincarnation,
Same body, same memories
But the freedom to build yourself
From scratch.

Vulgar, violent – in the past.
I painted with soft hues,
Bleached out the shameful blackness
Of my tongue, my bruised fists,
Overwritten and sanitised,
Reborn at thirteen.

The spotless portrait
Gathered blemishes with time;
I hid them, overwrit them,
With blotches of pure white,
Caged myself in the portrait I’d painted,
Frozen in my friends’ eyes.