what dreams are made of

dreaming of you feels like catching a beautiful butterfly with a net, encapsulating the fleeting nature of reminiscence. i relive the nostalgic comfort that i’ve missed with mind trickery. flashes, of pulling you with clasped palms, interlocked fingers firm and grounded with a sense of familiarity. it is a tender afternoon with bright rays seeping into corridors, casting warm shadows. nature shrouds our surroundings, green tendrils creeping and stretching casually across wall. i feel like a child again, lips uncontrollably curling upwards, cheeks burning, emanating, radiating with a lightness from within. laughter bubbles and echoes along long walkways, almost lifelike. i chatter about things off the top of my mind, relish in the comfort that i can be unapologetically, genuinely, just be. with you, i feel the most me.

i cling onto these images, piece them together carefully as though they are real memories, yearning to feel like i’m being swept off my feet again. i know it is all made-up wishes. i lay in bed, confused, heart aching with want. there is a certain emptiness that i’ve chosen to bury, uncovered during a fever dream.


honesty hour

tonight I will allow myself to miss you, in my fullest vulnerability. I make a playlist of longing, let my chest rise and crash to the rhythm with a shakiness I can’t contain. the faint glowing of fairy lights remind me that text notifications will no longer illuminate my face in the dark, and no amount of yearning will bring back the past. I feel emotion well up gradually, like the building up of a wave that dissipates with each breath, bubbling underneath the surface. this tender heartache, I will allow it to breathe to its heart’s content. one moment it is a phantom memory of warmth wrapped around me, the other it is the cold distance you have left me with. I will try my best to be patient, but I will also let myself feel the things I am feeling, with complete honesty and intentionality. the tears are difficult to call forth – it is as if I tried to divide my sadness into equal parts and experience each at a time, so that I do not drown.

I am not sure what I’m more afraid of – the pain of losing you or getting used to life without you.

re: living

immersing myself in fictional narratives as a weak attempt of temporary escape. it doesn’t actually change anything. the only thing that changes is the time I have left. how is it simultaneously too fast and too slow? why are weeks stretched but hours whiz by? the pain remains the same, buried then excavated; repeat the cycle of feeling too much and feeling nothing at all. life passes you like a boring movie, the fluorescent light of the theatre screen on your face, dazed eyes merely watching the motions but not entirely present. you don’t know what it’s like to live properly anymore. is this how normal people feel? am I overthinking again? am I supposed to ignore the growing void within me and cope with life as I have been dealt?

why is it so empty please fill me with something I just want to live vibrantly is that too much to ask for

restore my grey skies with colour. it seems like the palette is just within reach, yet I can’t find it in me to pick up the paintbrush. wrap your hand around my wrist, intertwine your fingers with mine, teach me how to experience life again, as it should be – a vivid technicolour dream.


this is what it means to know me

everyone is always curious. peeking through a slightly ajar door. around a dim corner. devoting their attention to my external being. examining your stature, the purse of your lips, the flickering expressions in your eyes.

but I wonder if they really want to know me. if they are daring to take that leap of faith. if they are willing to pull apart the fibres of what it means to be me, if they are patient with the frustrating entanglement of meanings within my strung up soul, if they are okay with forming the deep connections I so desire.

is everyone just scratching the surface with their fingertips? fabricating friendships from these shallow impressions? or maybe I am being a ridiculous, petulant, stubborn child, demanding the universe to understand me when I don’t even have the answers to my questions.

I just want someone to reach inside the expanding void in me and tell me, I know how this feels. I want them to say, I shall stay here, lay down with your emotions and unpack them, slowly, carefully. tonight, we shall unveil the constellations of thoughts you have been keeping to yourself and free you from this insomniac struggle. is it too much to ask for?

finding the right chemistry

how do I measure

covalent radius

from heart to heart –

the imagined distance

an arbitrary constant, constantly changing.


how do I determine

attraction (or repulsion)

of our shared electrons –

do you feel the pull too?

or are you experiencing the withdrawing effect?


how do I evaluate

effective collisions

between the atoms of our being –

a microscopic molecular exchange, so chaotic,

searching for the right orientation to fit into.


maybe this is how:

careful experimentation

with painfully slow distillation

of garbled words, condensing meaning

this science must not be rushed.


in the midst of it all

we precipitate transition metals,

colored crumbs in conical flasks,

out of trial-and-error;

realize we still split ourselves in half to find another.


one day we’ll stop wasting such energy;

instead learn to swallow light,

excite ourselves like we’re children again.

learn to ride the ups and downs of wavelengths

of our heartbeats, echoing our emotions endlessly.


know that this is how alive feels like.

when entropy no longer sweeps you off your feet,

when you no longer feel the need to experiment,

because they are all of the answers –


sorry for the train delay:

would you really call it an accident

when it should really be called a tragedy;

for it was staged, meticulously,

not just a sudden push off the edge,

but a slow accumulating

of decay, the rotting of a soul

decomposing into a grave

dug with their two bare hands –


stop pointing fingers

not at the corpse

or the family

or, anyone.

the body is heavy enough

weighed down by years of agony

bones shackled to train tracks

and heart too weary to lift itself

or even beat again


the blood splatters may be easy to clean

but can you really wash away something so ugly?

can you mop away the horror,

a gruesome scene

of twisted limbs and limp frame?

guts splayed across metal like

yarn, unraveling, the past

memories; tangled

amongst thread we use

to sew our eyes shut, theirs too,

with the remaining red string,

fate severed, short of

something more


the media stops weaving stories altogether.

soon they blend into

a single entity, enough

to blanket the entire country;

yet is buried under, cemented

platforms and rustling wheels



arrives at the nearest light

when the sun rises

and the corpse lowers

into a quiet cemetery, a lot

among lots of old souls.

too tired to carry this burden

so we lay it to rest –

we cannot afford so much

pain to fill the emptiness.


when will we learn

to put an end to our suffocating society?

let their muffled voices rise

above the screech of

train tracks, the cacophony

of hustle and bustle;

we should never busy ourselves

with forgetting.

let go and let live

their stories, unearthed

from buried grief.


would you really call it an accident

when it really should be called a tragedy?

would you really call it an accident

if it was my body; laying there?

you are your own scapegoat

how do you scratch the itching guilt away – a burning, writhing skin you never asked for, cursed to wear as a prisoner of regret. the dj casually mentions a can of worms and it becomes your tipping point, your truth spilling over uncontrollably, seeping into the cracks. the car radio fizzes into white noise as you feel the squirming creatures crawl over every nook and cranny of your insides. they eat away underneath your skin, festering like an old wound reopened, tearing apart painstaking stitches from a past life. you claw at this growing scab, wanting to shed this visible layer of pain; but the bleeding warns you against impatience. it is always too early. the hurt remains long after, because it will not allow you to forget. it follows you in your shadows, a parasitic being, feasting. 

i’m aching to douse this wound in spirits, my only way to swallow bitter pills, even though yes, i do know, that’s a toxic combination. but only then, will i be free.