nobody move there’s blood: here,
separated from my first love, heart
left in the cold, no house filled with
music or cinema, kite hung on bedroom
walls, how deep this cut, drowning in
a used torchlight, in laughter like a hyena,
in boiled water, an open window, nobody
moving, sitting, telling me how to
feel, dreaming, leaked between hawk-eyed
curtains, thrown trash, afternoon dust
and shining pollen. nobody move. no
knowing what’s real, holding on to this
black hole in my chest, broken,
messy, filled to the brim with a love
of absent things.
Jonathan Chan is a writer, editor, and graduate of the University of Cambridge. Born in New York to a Malaysian father and South Korean mother, he was raised in Singapore, where he is presently based. He is interested in questions of faith, identity, and creative expression. He has recently been moved by the writing of Tse Hao Guang, Rodrigo Dela Peña Jr., and Balli Kaur Jaswal.