Sometime in every month, at end of day,
I see your florid writing lying on my floor.
More than the sum of ink and paper – more
than all these bits of life you send my way –
I know this means I’ve been so long away
we’ve started planning when to meet, before
I even look up flights to Singapore.
– How’s work for you? Here everything’s OK. –
At times I write you late into the night,
putting thoughts down before they escape recall,
remembering: home, to me, is how you care.
And so these are the stories that we write:
the jokes, the sad and serious things, and all
the little bits of poetry we share.