If melancholy had a voice it would be yours:
lonely eaves dripping tears,
anguish the colour of a bruised plum.
Coax me to the edge of a dream,
teach me the taste of longing.
On a night like this even the dewdrops
are listening.
Your throat, once rubbed raw with romance,
sings the lonely cry of a sailor
losing his life to siren songs--
reduced to sea foam.
The moon hums an accompaniment
to memory. Chromatic scales speak in violet
tongues, rendering restless crickets silent.
& underneath it all, the heart in my mouth
struggling to escape the grip of my teeth,
beating itself into oblivion.
lonely eaves dripping tears,
anguish the colour of a bruised plum.
Coax me to the edge of a dream,
teach me the taste of longing.
On a night like this even the dewdrops
are listening.
Your throat, once rubbed raw with romance,
sings the lonely cry of a sailor
losing his life to siren songs--
reduced to sea foam.
The moon hums an accompaniment
to memory. Chromatic scales speak in violet
tongues, rendering restless crickets silent.
& underneath it all, the heart in my mouth
struggling to escape the grip of my teeth,
beating itself into oblivion.
Kwan-Ann Tan is a writer from Malaysia, and a student at the University of Oxford. Her work has appeared in The Mays Anthology, Sine Theta Magazine, and Crab Fat Magazine, amongst others. You can find her at kwananntan.carrd.co or on Twitter: @KwanAnnTan.