Sandy W. is a freelance writer and poet currently residing in Hong Kong. Her poems have appeared in poetry journals such as The Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine, The Opiate, Visual Verse and etc. Her poetry and other writings could be found on her own blog, The Disappearing Island:


Sandy W.



May 2016

I rarely go up there anymore.

Too many shards and tatters

jutted out, like an obtusely ill-grown tooth

scraping the membrane

of my tender memories.


Those days were young

like an unbroken promise, we sat up there

together in a great chair that could fit two,

with a book of fables that never rung true.

Our kisses went on under July's sunlight,

against all possible endings

and the moon. Quiet ripples of endless summer nights,

and her dress was drenched in sweet wine.

She was made of ringlets of laughters,

made of the scent of an apple orchard.

She was made of all good things

that slipped through my fingers.


I rarely go up there anymore.

Why would I? To sit in that empty chair,

and gather pots of dirty daffodils?

To read those moth-eaten letters,

and utter sentences with no arrival?

To be scolded by that cranky old piano

desperately missing her touch?

Or to be drowned yet again in the immense silence,

still more immense without her?


All day I rummage through the other parts of the house -

the den's nose, the kitchen's fingertips,

the bedroom's tear ducks.

All day I rummage through my body

for a sad corner, for a cigarette,

for a blue dream without her presence,

until the attic is as far as she is to me,

a distant nebulous star.


At nightfall, I sit upon the broken staircase,

palms dusty, sorrows over.

The wind quickens to a new horizon.

I see myself forgotten.


I love her still among those shredded things.  

But I rarely go up there anymore.

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