I heard of this place before.

They told me that all who come here
seek shelter from the noise and the chaos
that surrounds the everyday happenings in the concrete jungle.

I left everything behind and came to start over
in this little emptiness of nothing.
This place is small,
sheltered,
vaccant and
hollow,
as though the only companionship I have is
the echo of my footsteps across the wooden floorboards.
But given what had recently transpired–
it will do.

The house is simple.
It has one bedroom,
a living room with a phonograph thrown in and
a tiny little kitchen with a sink that faces the window.
There is a small patch of land in the back
that left remnants of what used to
blossom and thrive beautifully
under the loving care of one with a green thumb.

I thank my porter who responded with a grunt
as he heaved my bags onto the path,
tipped his hat and drove away.
The rumbling sound of his engine
gradually faded as he drove off
and I was soon left to the company of cicadas
as they bid adieu to the sun to welcome the moon.

I lug both my bags into the house and
carefully transport them up to my room.
Most of my things are brand new
save for whatever I managed to salvage
after the incident.

I unpack my things
and remove the padding–
newspaper, bubble wrap and all.
I hang up my clothes and
do best to make my new bedroom
feel just like home.

And in a tiny corner
in the wooden clothes cupboard
I gently place the most painful
item I managed to salvage–
a pair of half-charred baby shoes,
once worn.

Ten years ago I told Liza I loved her.

That was the first time those three words
escaped my mouth and
I remember how she laughed
as she took my trembling hands in hers
and tenderly kissed my knuckles.

That was the last time I saw her.

Liza was everything and anything in between;
I remember different parts of her
as though they were yesterday.
There was her favourite cherry sorbet in spring
and her excitement on the fourth of July.
Our apartment was stacked with
the endless collection of vinyls she hoarded
and the tubes of watermelon flavoured chapstick
she always misplaced.

Liza was a petite frame
with an uncontainable amount of curiousity-
her naivety complemented her carefree spirit
albeit dangerously, that is.
I remember when she would regale me with
her encounters of friendly strangers on the bus
or once where 'that horrid man ran off with
my purse when I distracted by the delicious smell
wafting from the bakery'.

It was precisely ten minutes past eight
that her brother called to deliver the news.
Liza was always determined to
focus straight ahead
when it came to her future
but sadly forgot about the other directions
when she crossed the road.
I suppose it was rather inappropriate of me
to find humour in the manner of her death
but a little voice told me that
she probably would have laughed too.

It has been awhile since
Liza ever crossed my mind
and I have grown out of
the shell I hid under.
But sometimes I lay in bed
at night and wonder
why I still taste watermelon
when I kiss another.