9 to light

Nine months in a sepia-tone pool of cosmic spices

​of peace or absence or nascence.

Nine months, then everything exfoliates into light.
Nine months and the things that disappear remain,
nine months and hands are not for walking—

​you learn to put less pressure on the earth’s skin:

your tongue utters a thing of unknown

​and your being breaks from mine;

you make a pastiche of the world

​and I am no longer the world to you

—your laugh acknowledges this.

Every time you reach one horizon

​you fall into another.

It is not so much rebirth

​as it is a drowning.

(c) David Wong Hsien Ming 2014