dumpling soup

The first time we met, you spent too long deliberating on what to eat. I stood in line, directly behind you in the almost empty 24 hours Chinese place and offered, “The dumpling soup here is good, if you have yet to decide.” You were startled, of course. This was not the part of town where people talk to each other. You told me, much later, that you had been surprised. You had thought I was kind because you were anxious and really could not make up your mind. I had thought you a nuisance, spoken out of frustration because it was 9pm at night, I was exhausted and still waiting in line because my server wage did not afford me the luxury of getting my food delivered to me, and you were there, taking up time I did not have to spare. It was not kindness, just self-interest, you misunderstood my intent.

The next time I met you, you placed your order of dumpling soup on the table I was sat at without asking, smiling like I knew you, and took a seat. You took my silence as consent and introduced yourself, demanding I do the same with your endless probing. I did not speak a word, figured you’d take a hint and let me eat in peace. But this was not the case, you were enamoured with yourself, you could go on forever talking. It did not seem to bother you that I did not care. I finished my meal, picked up my tray and left.

The third time I met you was a month later. I had gotten off work later than usual and was starving. I found you drunk and retching at the sidewalk of the entrance to the Chinese place. Nothing in me wanted to help you, but we were not in the good part of town, and I did not want to wonder if you made it through the night safe. So I helped you up, and brought you back to my place. I did not have a couch, so I left you on the floor with some water and went to bed. It was summer, you would not freeze, and this floor was better than the sidewalk at the very least.

You were gone the next morning, with hardly a trace that you’d even been at my home just hours prior. You did not leave a note, I really did not care. I had taken you home only to ease my conscience, in case you wound up on the news dead the next day.

Maybe I should not have bothered, because I saw you for the last time the following day: you had wound up on the news dead anyway. Something about some scuffle, something about some men, I did not care for the details but I found myself still mourning your death. Not because you were a friend, but because you’d seemed like the type, who would make it out of here someday.

my favourite colours

it was a slow birth – our love, like the wavering flame that never seemed quite sure of how long it might keep burning.

i thought it strangled at first, it’s struggle for oxygen, threatening to out a heartbreak at any given moment. My impatience for love meant my confidence was depleted, i contemplated putting it out myself.

but you, with your Gentle Giant hands always fed it kindle, quiet whispers of air to keep it ablaze. Your love was compelling, a sky of orange and reds, the heat a comforting wave of warmth.

I learnt oranges and reds are my favourite colours.

You are my favourite colour.

Thank you for teaching me the colours of love.

star crossed, we were not

I might have claimed us star-crossed lovers, if you weren’t the force working against us. If, there was an us. If, we loved. Instead, I was a starry eyed lover, beckoning my favourite night sky – mapping the stars and the constellations with my hands stretched out, narrowing the focus of my line of sight. I’ve always loved the sky, perhaps that is why I love you.

Love, present.

Then, I suppose star-struck I was by the way you showed me a world beyond the limits of the sky, the way you taught me the milky way, the way you introduced the idea of endless possibilities, of sincere limitless opportunity. To me you were a galaxy, the evolution of a universe I had never studied or understood, but one that I accepted without hesitation, the comfort of your presence I always wanted to live within.

It is not that I was unaware of the distance I’d have had to travel to be within your sphere. It is not that I refused to acknowledge the blisters that developed in my pursuit. Instead it is that I painted false hues of confidence on my skin, wishing they would harden and stand the blows and pain that I might inflict upon my fragile heart. I guess my plans fell through. I guess my precaution did not suffice. I say I guess because the paint has cracked, my confidence has seeped through the crevices of my pretence and I am no longer certain.

See, I offered my heart to your sky and your universe, but now I am taking it back. I am retracting the hand I once stretched out, I am witnessing the flaws unfold and play out.

I do not believe in deserving, and hence I hold no resentment for what we might have been. I do not blame you for not loving me the way I spend so many nights wishing you would. I do not blame you for not holding my hand and cradling my heart the way I did yours. Most of all I do not blame you for not wanting the same us as I did.

Instead I thank you for your time and your consideration. I say thank you because I know ever so often you kept me in mind, I say thank you because I know at times you really did try. Thank you for listening to my late night rambles, for bearing my thoughts even when they were in shambles. Thank you for entertaining my demands, for allowing my forehead kisses and occasionally lending me your arms. Thank you for allowing love to stop by, even if she knocked only at my door.

Dear star crossed lover, I hope to never remember you a nightmare, but instead think you a dream.

goodnight