Tanka

Suffocating nights;

The past stumbles through my dreams

And sits on my chest1.

Pray for relief that is rain,

And sleep like a handkerchief.

 

1Fun fact: the ‘mare’ in ‘nightmare’ refers to an evil spirit that, well, sits on people’s chests while they are sleeping.

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愚人节

你四月离去,还以为再也不会见到你,你却就在几个星期内回国,相信这次连你会同意玩笑开得有点残忍。五个月的时间,我没改变什么。 连手机中的简讯,照片,你吃饭时样子又有点蠢又可爱,视频中录下我的笑声,都保存着,显然,我始终没变聪明,学会了什么。原本希望我们在此相见时,我能以沉静的一副面对你,现在反而害怕会露出我依然还没彻底解除的情绪。

嗨,愚人节真是来迟了五个月。

不知我们再次相见时,你的眼神中会带有什么感情。你是否会感到尴尬?(我知道我一定会。)眼里露出悔恨之神?讨厌?我没权利请求什么,但最害怕的是你漠不关心,因为我心中已刻出了洞,拥有你的回忆必须永存在心。

 

Chapter 1

Tried writing a short story, it kinda turned out like this. Tell me what you think! Should I continue this?

Suppressed noise. Sounds wired into headphones and eardrums, couples hold hands, some tensely. White noise humming from those minds temporarily blank as the wall they stare at.

Plastic handles sway like ominous pendulums. There’s a couple just above my head, millimeters from my face, which floats, reflected in the black glass within a metal door. I never noticed this blouse was the same color as the walls of a train compartment, white, dubiously sterile-looking. Opposite me, the girl leans her head on his arm. Their faces get closer, almost touch. I lapse into mock sleep, it gets harder to breathe-

Relief comes with the slowing slide of the train floor. The crowd comes murmuring back to life, awakens at the dead-sounding, doorbell-ring. That familiar, detached voice, ignored. “Please do not lean against the train doors.”  Body heat. Someone’s sweat stained shirt. Someone shoves me from behind, and I almost fall in my high heels. Sweat drops. The tide swells and bursts as the train doors open, and I rush like a bat out of hell.

Passengers from reverse direction approaches. I blink and realise, It’s August.

Jostling,  a quickening of breath. Thoughts like muddy footsteps-

Fingertips brush against a soft, flowery sleeve. “Hey!”

I was the one who stopped her. Once again, I reached out into the rippling sea of people and snatched a slippery, golden fish.  Here she is, clothes trapped in my fingers again. I’m hoping she can’t feel how hot they are, blood burning under my skin like her vivid blush.

 

Arrival

we have no longer proven ourselves unalike, in anatomy or vice;

awakening feels so wrong, yet so right,

Just another day of you looking different, I scarcely remembered it; 

Abnormal, like through warped or new lens (no longer rose-tinted)

Attraction’s antonym; we act like like poles ()

Atmosphere, breathless; satellites

on opposite ends of the Earth don’t need to gasp

don’t come close to me, I can’t stand it-

(you move closer, I back off; but when you’re

absent, my heart tugged

like a string 5000 kilometres)

Sayonara, moon child,

Waiting for the cold snap, like the many rules, then promises,

we’ve already broken-

at the departure gate, I have arrived.

in response to Day 1 of

Blogging A to Z Challenge

(I’m not very happy with this, as I rarely am with my writing recently, but nevermind.)

Edge of a goodbye

Past. Snatches of pop songs

like    flat stones  skipping   the        waves

by the grainy sand. Sandals and driftwood.

The edge of the jetty, bicycles tossed aside,

swinging our bare feet, the ships in the distance like hulks of rock.

Tan skin and smoke and the edge in your voice.

(A word from you and I would have

closed my eyes, surrendered to fate

leapt off the rock into)

Crystalline waters.

Would you have done so for me though?

Even before things went pear-shaped, was I

ever on your mind as you were mine?

(Did you ever) imagine we could fly?

I could never tell you what I wanted (to say),

Waiting for tomorrow, soft jazz and dulcet tones

are my companion. Desperation and the moon.

Soft rain.

Do we fake a smile again

when it’s time to say (good)bye?

In response to the daily post prompt:

Edge

Red string

prompt: Longing

Indescribable feeling, xiang si, mutually occupying each other minds;

(but how do I know you think of me? it’s not me to say)

goes away upon peaceful music,

trying to drift to sleep,

a familiar song like a trigger

round headed bullet like the fat nib of  a pen

your hand

(I had a bandage, but you didn’t want it)

was bleeding

around your finger, a red ring,

tugs me along