Memory

The brain holds, not leaks,

Of my past panoramas—

For all are retained.

Like the rusted box

With a bowl of hot mi-so

And leftover rice,

Grandma’s old sweater,

With a faded, navy hue

And shades of dim grey.

Or my old guitar

Filled with smudged, black signatures,

Scratches here and there

These strings hold moments,

And words spoken long ago—-

That I still cherish—

To this day they stay

Etched in a fleeting silence—

and unforgotten.

Lili Mariline

3 AM in the morning, Fifth Avenue, New York.

She walked down bricky tapestry of memories

All neatly knit together on one breezy autumn night.

The streets were vibrant in neon colors, and the streetlights were dim—

yet, with hordes of moths.

Craving for the flickering of light bulbs,

One by one fluttering to the ground, lifeless.

She re-opened a letter he sent her years ago

and smelt a fragrance of his nostalgic cynicism.

It came from a land far away,

Where bullets were words—-and truths are silenced.

It came from a world so different from the one she lives,

One she has never dared to imagine.

She heard a faint melody of his, singing ‘Lili Mariline’.

Then, she gazed into the distance.

Thinking about the very spark that once made life in her world

And one that had once filled her heart with joy.

With a stream of memory running down her left cheek,

With panoramas of forgone yesterdays running down her other,

And with a dim reminiscence of his last goodbye,

Her castle of conscience reached its last chapter, and then—

She fell.