the changi sky a colorless blue as it
cracks with the shine of a raging dawn.
another day back at home with an imperfect set
of teeth and lips, chipped off by fiery slip,
a violent kiss, a bloody spit, driven off,
discharged, home by one at night.
another dark hour I sleep without
sound, the morning brings lesser hope:

I am tainted. by my own set of imperfect
wishes and expectations, the lingering sting
of Mr. Brightside. I never (I never) expected
my pain to sustain me through these tough times.
“don’t outlast me” my scream an echo
my wishes are fallen, redundant shadows.
the ornament has shattered, the damage is done and
no damn resin can fix the gates of the past.



back again. it would have happened sooner or later.
the familiar mist of the morning march and the brakes of a
/ stopping train / through the hours looking upwards as
the gray clouds drift in our favor, for now.
back again, the melancholy of the afternoon purging downpour,
the alternate plans of static exercises, punctuated with collective endurance.
back again at the plans and preps, into that territory unfamiliar,
unburdened at the climax of first light’s march.
back again, the weekend shorter than ever before, each minute a moment.
back again, on a wet sunday evening before the everyday begins once again.