I left the poet with you. 

I left my childhood room in sealed silence, 

the bittersweet rushing to inhabit 

gaps in identity and distance, all mute. 

I left with my little life compartmentalised,

only to find you swimming in flames anew. 

I left wanting to preserve the maelstrom 

of memories you pieced together, brick by 

brick. Instead you took a hammer to your own creation. 

Instead I’m left thinking what is the point of 

a home we cannot stay in. 

I left only to drown in pictures of burning buildings.

I left you to grieve over 

the dark contours of a leprous shadow 

morphing into unrecognisable shapes. 

I left in betrayal/surrender because how 

impossible it is to resurrect a dying city. 

I left with that same old self-defeating prophecy:

left unable to forgive both your casualties

and irreplicable warmth. 

I left the pen behind but 

its writing persists, questioning, always, 

how it is to love and hate a place in equal part. 

I leave, I leave, I leave

just to come back again.

Image: Nicola Lau