A poem by MEI HOE


Parallel lines inked in 0.1mm pen

seem to extend towards infinity

or at least to the end of the page.

The sketches lack no detail nor do they

want for more in their neat completion

with the perfectly aligned windows in

free hand.

Your studio is organised,

Not a pen out of place nor a

book out of alphabetical order.

Your apartment is made of adjacent lines

With your coffee table exactly half a metre

away from the couch and each mug coaster

evenly     spaced     from     each     other.

Everything has its place and

there is a place for everything

are the exact words you live by.

Not a moment passes that you don’t

question if someone has tampered with

your neatly structured desk or your

perfectly positioned files.

The flowers from the bouquet are

arranged on your table as you

brutally cut each stem to the

perfect length so each are

perfectly aligned and

colour coordinated

and parallel.

The complexity of your thoughts overwhelms

the silence of your mouth like the delicate

lacework that you stitch and restitch into

tessellated perfection in your home and

in your brain. You hold the ring between

your fingers and you fiddle with it and you

inspect it to make sure it is perfect circular.

You get down on one knee; the only time you

tolerate the dirt as you hold out the box with the

perfectly circular ring and you ask for my hand in

marriage and I say yes and you hold me in your tight

grasp and we cut the Queen Anne’s Lace together and

arrange them by number of flowers on each little cluster

and you tell me that out of all things, I’m the most perfect.

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