The ones where it’s okay
to talk about the way your breath lingers on my mind,
the way your armpits smell absolutely divine
when you wake up, and say
this was the universe I always knew we’d end up in some day.
The dreams where it’s absolutely fine
to ask how, and when, and where, and why
did we meet, and more importantly, get things right:
these are the ones where I finally feel safe enough to write
about what you did for me,
and for so many people I loved.
For the home you built for me,
and all the times you showed me that being tough
does not have to mean being rough;
being loved does not mean having to get fucked.
Being me means being free
to tell you that that’s not what I see.
Being me means writing in my dreams
that one day, in another universe,
I’ll have all the liberty
to tell the last Merlionsman of the Republic of Singapore
just how much he was a fantasy.