shifen

i cannot think

my thoughts,

as scattered as the lanterns dotted across the heavens

kongmingdengs we craft from our hands,

dusted and bruised,

your palm lines mirroring our journey

you are pregnant with hopes as you crease and fold

you astound me,

how desperately you want your wishes granted by God

I wonder how you can still want more

when I am all that you want

and companion does not

come cheap

stroke by stroke, ink bleeds through like poetry

you carve and crave, not noticing:

1)   the curvature of the mountains,

(arches unlike the factitious ones

 integrated into architecture back home)

2)   how the sky, not air,

is infused with scents, incoherent myriad that

stirs my senses

(of Christmas, barbeque, singed paper)

3)   families fretting, posing for pictures

before sending

their dreams to their demise

4)   the subdued sunset splayed upon

shophouses

(walls peeling and paint shedding,

 each layer revealing history)

5)   or even the train in perpetual haste,

displacing pebbles every 20 minutes,

inches from our faces

flames devour and the procession launches

like a backwards Technicolored waterfall

they rise

you clasp my hand in yours

sealing my doubts

and I spot my name etched on our lantern