evening, the
pushing of the
hour, and the staying
of the day, you listened.
Every time we touch, I count.
But all I learnt in this exile
was that every muscle in my hand ached
for yours. Yes. We are not alright. This isn’t
love, but a close second. Careless creator, why do you
make hearts that bruise like overripe fruit? Things go to pieces.
The self is the same – it must be taught that if I ought,
then I must: to grasp the heart, enter the chambers, shut the door;
to eat the heart, to eat the heart. We all have blood in our mouths.


for prompt 29

Filed under: Poetry, Uncategorized


A member of Singapore-based writing collective /stop@BadEndRhymes ("/s@ber"), Valen dwells in the swamp of poetry. He has been published in various publications, including Anxious Poets Society, Eunoia Review and Quarterly Literary Review Singapore. He has performed his work at the Arts House, the Singapore Art Museum, and in various dingy bars.

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