By rochelle lee

with every sunrise, you leave a sunset behind.

It is too early for the stars to start sleeping,
for the washed-out watercolours in the sky
to start counting the weight of the world
on their fingertips. Restlessly they splash against
my shoes, like silk and blade. Trailing my
steps, ghost shadows reminding me
of the evening that once bloomed here,
watering the ground with calm.

The streetlamps blink slowly, stretching, yawning
at the lightless skyline. Whispered secrets start to
drain empty into the day’s promised bustle. Sun
pours out of the iconic dragon’s mouth like fire,
soaks the playground in gold grime. The 4 a.m.
conversations go smudged then, half-memorized on the
edge of my tongue. It’s all dawning on me now, light-
headed and slow-burning. A moon; trying so hard to
wade through the tired water and come out still feeling.

I am laughing to drown out the after-party emptiness
sinking in my chest, the people who have gone; looking
up numbly and thinking oh. The sun is up. This was the
beginning of our ending—when we tried to run
our fingers through a pale flush of stars, still dreaming, and our
hands crumbled with the last of the hourglass. The clean wash of
nirvana was too high, too quiet; dripping so it felt that
on the way here we had long left something behind.

rochelle lee is an aspiring writer from singapore. right from the very first badly-put short story, writing became her comfort and her understanding. she writes both mood poetry and prose but tends to love more of the former for when she’s thinking too much. she regrets knowing she once published a story about evil clocks in the all in! snack fiction anthology but is still very much thankful for the opportunity. she was also very sad to see her favourite bookshop booksactually in tiong bahru go and will continue being sad until further notice.

image: @bambicorro via Unsplash

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