Popagandhi

Half a year ago, on an atypically breezy Singapore evening, we talked for hours by a sidewalk. After that talking was over we blew smoke from our shisha pipes into our faces, and after the smoke cleared, we set off for an indeterminate place. The point, it seemed, was to walk as far as we could before our mothers called for us, towards a river, then along its banks, if we found one. Before that river was reached, you reached for me.

On the banks of that river, oblivious to tourists, night birds, other misfits, I held you for the first time though not the last. It was intimate, but reserved, close, but not intruding. Prodding but never prying. Not daring to kiss you I ran my lips past your shoulders, squeezed you round the hips, and sniffed. For the next few weeks, I fumbled: with words, searching for appropriate ones, for your hands, trying not to tremble, for your lips, but missed each time. Then on a rooftop somewhere we found our pace, and in the corner of a gay bar we were inseparable. That same night I lay awake while you slept, worried about your cough. Months later, awake in Koh Kong, kept up by dogs, Khmer karaoke, and days of hard travelling, our faces pressed against the hard bed - even in such circumstances, it was possible to feel everything was in its right place.

At so many points we’ve set off for indeterminate places, only to be pleasantly surprised. The only difference being instead of taking the hardest, longest possible route this time, I’m actually having a ball of a time. I hope you are too, sweetheart. Here’s to many more miles and months.