I still recognize the little girl
whose hands smelled of pandan cakes...

"In time, her tale grew old,
her hands grew old...

He's zipped up your ribcage and swore
never to touch it again...

Food stalls align the street, the smell
wafting around old ladies collecting tin cans...

One -
we are strangers, reaching over...

We were jetlagged by dreams,
trying to solve our time difference...

She speaks in monologue,
even ignores walls...

Cast the rod, rip the calendar apart,
you'll find your lucky number...

At 12 AM, I forgot about the laundry,
still curling in the washing machine...

They lift my legs.
Left. Right...

I am but the rotten core
of an apple, love-bites from falling...

What if I walked
up-side-down...