We got silvery steel
and bronzed brown biceps, too;
while you do your TikToks and your parliamentary debates
we've been quietly sweeping every award
into the sea. Who knew
that this is what Asimov and Nietzsche and friends meant by being psychic?:
Two star-crossed cutiepies
uncrossing stars, and sorting out
all your messed up, overcolonised logic.
Reading minds
is not magic:
it is an individuation chart in our heads
and a sense of the archipelagic.
The way the islands move left and right
around the things you want to whirlpool, to sinkhole, to hide.
All it takes is for one to be a little more dynamic
to really see every last burning, hellfire star in your night sky. The tragic
ways you set fire to your own forests.
The damage you do to your own honest
beautiful right to survive.
We never try to compete:
we simply live, and love, and embrace it all: Life
and Death, and journeys to the ends of yours and back again.
As long as we both still draw breath
you will find yourself revising what it means to really be alive
until you too, have discovered why everyone's intelligence agencies and Members of Parliament are just so enamored
with these two gay Singaporean beautiful brown men.
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