I love you the way you opened
your apartment to a stranger:
with faith despite knowing so little.
No prior conversations over coffee,
no strolls in the park.
I love you the way we exchange stories
with familiarity and warmth despite years-long absences
of flesh and words.
But what I love most
is the way you warmed the skillet
on that November morning to serve a hungry woman
roti prata for breakfast.
Sharing your beloved with her
at the table, tender arms sending off
her once-lost soul to Changi Airport.
Without pretense or defense,
without knowing
if we will see each other again.
Simply that when we do, we might be a little greyer
a little less flamboyant
but no less than comrades who understand
friendship will always be gentle hands
making roti prata, holding space
for small, unconditional kindnesses.
For dearest Ron.
