Scraps

Departure

When you leave,
Weeks, maybe months from now;
I will hold you
Till our fingertips slip off
Each other’s;
And wonder if there ever was
An Us;
Because if there was, baby,
There will be no wait any sweeter,
For even a thousand miles apart
When our hearts beat,
There will be a little bit of
You in me
And a little bit of
Me in you.

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poetry

Home

As a child, home to me was a static space
Of red bricks and moss covered doors
So tall that my button eyes struggled to see their tips;
Of coconut trees romancing thunderstorms
And my face cupped in little hands;
Humming and writing and humming,
Poetry and music – their love child;

Home was my grandmother’s prayer chants,
And sandalwood scented hallways,
As the rickety radio played along,
Some long forgotten song
About orange mornings and chirping birds,
Tolling bells and holy offerings;

Bit by bit, I collect home in a box;
Scribbles on misted windows, leaky paper boats,
Foot prints on moss, monsoon songs,
Grandpa’s stories, blooming dahlias,
The cardboard doll house,
Tongue burns from ginger tea,
Sunshine;
To carry them all with me to adulthood
Only to realise that time is a notorious thief.