Close the Window, Come to Bed
Let’s talk about how we halve grief, divide
moonlight, slice open decay to allow for
more decay. It’s May now, meaning cold feet
and dampening laundry. Meaning inconsolable
skies and a train pulling into the platform then
emptying itself. Quietly. At a distance. From a
sixth-storey balcony with evening dew clinging
under its rail, old telephone books thrashing
in the wind. Come winter, we’ll heat our
hands over the stove and ruin each other for
anyone else. For everyone else. You, who is
unlike anything I’ve ever known. You, who
kissed my idiosyncrasies until they sighed.
You, with half a chuckle against the weakness of
my throat. Yes—always you, at the rim of that
childhood playground, at the edge of that
ageing photograph, your face slow-burning in
fields of morning light. 


June Tang