/h
en route to dinner in changi. elation in the bright blue car. planes taking off on both sides. wrists like a tuning fork from coaxing polaroids. a love note on my lap. none of them for me but I couldn’t. stop. smiling.

/p
the junk food that tastes the best is always the absolute worst for you. I know this. I know this as I rattle in the bus, and hoop bright orange rings around my fingers and eat them slowly without checking their ingredient labels. it takes me back to when I was small, and even less grown-up than now, when feeling super was as easy as eating super ring; manifesting its neon chemical colours onto my tongue and myself.