Between the two of us, you'd be the one who noticed our differences first. The background you grew up in helped you point out the wrong, things like smoking, drinking, lust. Have any of it on you and your parents would disown you in a heartbeat.
You said I smelled like stale cigarettes and alcohol when we first met, following my old impulsive habits. A voice rang in your head, telling you to run as fast as you could, but you stayed rooted in fascination. You even got into my car, letting me drive you into the world that went against your parents' morals.
Along with the toxicity that made me, I was far lower than where you stood. I fed on self-pity and pessimism, things that stayed with me even five years later. You were all laughter and honesty and optimism, things that I took away from you as time went by.
Words were always the only company I had, be they the ones that I made or lyrics that spewed into my ears. Or the ones that were laid before me, held together in these things called books.
Take you back to Outram Park, where I waited with my nose buried in a book. Back to Orchard, when I dragged you to the closing sale of a posh bookstore called {prologue}. All over Singapore, the libraries that I made home for an hour or two while waiting for you to end school or work or cross the border.
Along your many departures and my many attempts at moving on, my habit and love for reading always stood out. Wow, a girl who reads? You don't find that anywhere nowadays! Shut the fuck up, I wanted to tell those boys, one of which were you.
Of course I remember the books I was reading at the time I first met you. One was the reason I was so obsessed with flowers in a strange way, warning you never to get any for me in case you get the meanings wrong. A girl that looked like me was on the cover, with long dark hair covering half her face.
You tried so hard to impress me, going to the extent of asking me to recommend something. Not trusting you with my heart was one thing, but no way in hell was I going to let you touch my books. Still, you convinced me somehow, and until now there's a book buried in your house that was mine.
You had on your FOX hoodie while I had my ratty old beanie; you gave me one side of your earphones. Soon I took my book out to read, and suddenly you pulled out the one I lent you too. An Indian boy on the edge of a boat, a tiger beside him.
We were coming back to the spine of the green line from the airport, when we decided to head back to the first station and bounce. The doors took forever to close and the train forever to depart, so there we were at Tanah Merah: two kids sharing earphones, one a genuine bookworm and the other reading just to impress her.
You said I smelled like stale cigarettes and alcohol when we first met, following my old impulsive habits. A voice rang in your head, telling you to run as fast as you could, but you stayed rooted in fascination. You even got into my car, letting me drive you into the world that went against your parents' morals.
Along with the toxicity that made me, I was far lower than where you stood. I fed on self-pity and pessimism, things that stayed with me even five years later. You were all laughter and honesty and optimism, things that I took away from you as time went by.
Words were always the only company I had, be they the ones that I made or lyrics that spewed into my ears. Or the ones that were laid before me, held together in these things called books.
Take you back to Outram Park, where I waited with my nose buried in a book. Back to Orchard, when I dragged you to the closing sale of a posh bookstore called {prologue}. All over Singapore, the libraries that I made home for an hour or two while waiting for you to end school or work or cross the border.
Along your many departures and my many attempts at moving on, my habit and love for reading always stood out. Wow, a girl who reads? You don't find that anywhere nowadays! Shut the fuck up, I wanted to tell those boys, one of which were you.
Of course I remember the books I was reading at the time I first met you. One was the reason I was so obsessed with flowers in a strange way, warning you never to get any for me in case you get the meanings wrong. A girl that looked like me was on the cover, with long dark hair covering half her face.
You tried so hard to impress me, going to the extent of asking me to recommend something. Not trusting you with my heart was one thing, but no way in hell was I going to let you touch my books. Still, you convinced me somehow, and until now there's a book buried in your house that was mine.
You had on your FOX hoodie while I had my ratty old beanie; you gave me one side of your earphones. Soon I took my book out to read, and suddenly you pulled out the one I lent you too. An Indian boy on the edge of a boat, a tiger beside him.
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