typo

I bought 22 calendars
and stacked them, to see
how long I could stand

those blank squares, like rooms
in a HDB; as empty as drywall.
Everything, anything could fit-

anything could have. But the pages
are glued shut now, lost to memory.
Will you be with me today next year?

I shudder. How many pages would be
a good estimate? It need not be
reasonable. It never is.

What if I’d doubled down- bought 33.
Could see to 2050, in your final stages.
I’d have to bury you in an empty plot,
surrounded by stacks of silent pages.

Filed under: Original, Poetry

by

A founding 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 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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