It's staying up until 5
nodding into unconsciousness,
one ear listening.

It's waking up at 7
on a Sunday,
because Singapore and New York don't sleep
—or wake— together.

It's the cheeky "I was going to say that"
and a rushed "don't forget your umbrella!"

It's diluted morning coffee,
and runny scrambled eggs.
It's the morning bagel, just lightly toasted.
It's herbal soups and fresh fruits
freshly cut on Wednesday mornings.

It's the comfort in off-tune singing.
It's a spilled bowl of honey cheerios.
It's an attempt at tangled braids.
It's dancing around house chores.

It's holding out the phone line a few seconds longer,
It's waiting in the chilly winter nights on freshly-watered grass.

It's nights of sleeping back-to-back, but
It's appointments missed and alarms overslept.
It's silent tears of shielded feelings and overdue conversations.

It's just simply,

If Roses are Red

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