By: Angelica Ng
Laughter caught between the lines,
of a gently unfolded love letter,
its elbow creases signed with lip prints,
its complexion a shade of soft blush.
With the moon as the only witness,
to steam rising off freshly brewed tea,
heat wraps a blanket around the breeze,
and warms our dancing fingertips.
Nestling in the sherpa folds of here and now,
sheltered in the nook of this moment,
we pray we won’t be forgotten,
in the fate that is dawn’s hour.
Like collectors of ephemera,
grasping on to the finest threads,
lines that tear the quickest,
when the chamomile grows cold.
A developing photograph,
film still wet under a cherry glow,
fuzzy as a peach around the edges,
begging the light of day to stay back.
The touch of this memory,
so gentle it isn’t real,
so genuine it isn’t imagined.
(People's Poetry Festival, LOFT 112)