Velvet Weather

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

I laugh with my whole mouth now,
head tilted back like a woman
who has survived enough winters
to stop apologising for spring.

Silk slips from one shoulder—
not by accident,
never by accident—
and the room notices me
the way jazz notices midnight.

My body is not a confession.
It is a lantern.

Curves warm as poured honey,
stockings whispering against skin,
perfume blooming low and slow
like orchids opening after rain.
I walk through the evening
with that old dangerous softness:
the kind that does not beg to be touched,
yet teaches hands to tremble.

Outside, London glitters wet and gold.
Taxis hiss through the streets.
Someone downstairs is playing trumpet badly.
I adore him for trying.

There was a time
I mistook sorrow for depth.
Now I know joy has deeper water.

So I dance barefoot in the kitchen,
wine-dark mouth smiling at nothing,
hips remembering every port city,
every lover, every goodbye
I survived beautifully.

And when desire comes to sit beside me,
I do not kneel to it.
I pour it tea.
I let it rest its head against my thigh
while dawn loosens her pale hair
over the windows.

What luxury—
to remain tender
without surrendering power.

What miracle—
to still be capable of delight.

星期三着住絲絨高踭鞋行過嚟

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

星期三又到喇——
攰到半死嘅人群中間，
佢仲係行到似電影女主角。

高踭鞋喺地板
滴答、滴答，
好似已經聽到
星期五喺遠處叫緊我個名。

我慢慢攪咖啡，
望住倫敦啲雨
黐喺窗邊發光，
粒粒雨水都似
趕住去偷情。

今日開幾多無聊會議都好，
唇膏冇甩。
呢個已經值得飲杯香檳。

街外紅巴士濺起水花，
成個城市濕漉漉、霓虹虹、
帶少少壞。

而我呢，
帶住嗰種細細哋、危危哋嘅笑——
女人一諗到週末，
自然會有嗰種笑。

哎呀，
星期三從來都唔正經。

佢似酒吧入面
靠埋嚟同你講悄悄話嗰個女人：

「靚女——
買嗰條黑色絲裙啦。
send 訊息畀唔應該搵嗰個人啦。
去跳舞，
跳到凌晨先返。」

哈哈。
可能我真係會。

等到星期六，
我可能帶住威士忌、茉莉煙香同午夜味道，
喺爵士樂下面笑到太大聲，
眼線鋒利，
曲線危險，
優雅得嚟又有少少衰。

不過而家——
星期三只係挑一挑眉，
整理好手套，
慢慢帶我行向
週末嗰片閃閃發光嘅夜色。

Wednesday again—
halfway queen o’ the weary parade,
heels clicking through office light
like a woman who knows
Friday already whispered her name.

I stir my coffee slow,
watch rain tease the windows o’ London,
every droplet pretending
it has somewhere scandalous to be.

My lipstick survives another meeting.
That alone deserves champagne.

Outside, buses hiss red through puddles,
the city all damp velvet and neon ache,
while I walk with that dangerous little smile
women wear
when the weekend is already undressing
inside their imagination.

Aiya—
Wednesday isnae serious.
She’s the sly friend at the bar
leaning close to murmur:

“Go on, mei nui…
buy the silk dress.
Text the wrong woman.
Dance one hour too long.”

And maybe I will.

Maybe by Saturday
I’ll smell of jasmine smoke, whisky, and midnight,
laughing too loudly beneath jazz light,
all curves, wit, and wicked eyeliner,
like trouble wrapped careful in elegance.

But for now—
Wednesday lifts one pencilled brow,
straightens her gloves,
and carries me forward
with a slow cinematic sway
toward the waiting glitter
o’ the weekend.

Collie Pup Memories

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

They scampered through the heather wide,
Wi’ wee paws skippin’ side by side.
Their laughter barked in bursts o’ glee—
A music made for only me.

They chased the sticks I flung afar,
Like streaks o’ licht beneath the star.
Wi’ tousled fur and shining een—
They ruled the fields like pups o’ queen.

By burn and brae they splashed aboot,
Wi’ muck and joy in equal cloot.
Each tumble sent the day aglow—
A world o’ wonder on the go.

And when the play grew saft and slow,
They nestled close in evening’s low.
Their warmth, their trust, their gentle grace—
A love time never can displace.

黑桃皇后

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, Poetry1 Comment
A woman in a black satin gown stands in a dimly lit room holding a playing card, surrounded by candles, gold lamps, and dark velvet curtains, her expression calm and commanding.

我唔係紅心。
唔會喺玻璃杯邊留下唇印，
等邊個誤會係愛。

我係黑桃。
泥土底下翻出嚟嗰種黑，
戰場燒完之後仲有溫度嗰種灰。
一把劍插入靜水，
連月光都學識收聲。

細個嗰陣，
老人話黑桃代表冬天、死亡、智慧。
我後尾先知——
死亡唔一定係終點。
有時只係一個女人
終於唔再跪低。

我着黑絲絨，
肩膊有火藥味、蘭花味、海鹽味。
男人望住我，
似水手望住暴風雨之前嗰片海：
太靚，
所以知道危險。

我識得溫柔。
但我嘅溫柔似刀背。
你以為鈍，
其實只係未見過我翻轉隻手。

有啲女人被愛塑造。
有啲女人被失去塑造。
而我——
被沉默塑造。

夜晚長到似一條舊傷疤，
我坐喺爵士樂同煙霧中間，
慢慢洗牌。
每一次切牌，
都好似切開前世。

黑桃皇后從來唔求運氣。
運氣太輕。
我信秩序、代價、選擇。
信一個人
可以靜靜地活成一把武器，
又唔需要向任何人解釋。

有人叫我冷。
因為佢哋只見到雪。
睇唔到雪下面，
其實埋住春天。

我愛人嘅時候，
會愛到好深。
深到似礦井。
似海軍墜落之前
最後見到嗰片黑藍色天空。

但背叛我？
你會明白點解古老牌局裡面，
黑桃皇后永遠唔係一張「安全」嘅牌。

我唔屬於任何國王。
王座只係一張椅。
而我——
係握住命運副牌嗰隻手。

I was never the queen of hearts.
I do not leave lipstick ghosts
on crystal rims
and call it devotion.

I am spade-black—
the color of turned earth,
of burnt battlefields still warm beneath rain,
of a blade lowered into still water
until even moonlight learns silence.

Old women once said
the spade meant winter, death, wisdom.
Later, I understood
death is not always an ending.
Sometimes it is merely
the moment a woman
refuses to kneel again.

I wear velvet like mourning.
My skin keeps the scent
of gunpowder, orchids, sea salt.
Men look at me
the way sailors study the horizon
before a storm:
beautiful enough
to become fatal.

I know tenderness.
But my tenderness is the back of a knife.
You mistake it for softness
only because
you have never seen my hand turn.

Some women are shaped by love.
Some by grief.
I was shaped by silence.

The night stretches long as an old scar.
I sit between jazz and cigarette smoke,
shuffling cards
as if each cut
opens another former life.

The Queen of Spades never trusts luck.
Luck is too fragile.
I trust consequence.
Discipline.
Choice.
The slow art
of becoming a weapon
without ever raising one’s voice.

People call me cold
because they only see the snow,
never the hidden field beneath it
waiting for spring.

And when I love,
I love like depth itself—
mine-shaft deep,
ocean-trench deep,
the dark blue sky a falling pilot
sees one final time.

But betray me,
and you will understand
why in old card games
the Queen of Spades
was never considered
a safe thing to hold.

I belong to no king.
A throne is only furniture.
And I—
I am the hand
holding the deck.

水之餘響

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

人話我似水。
唔係因為溫柔——
係因為我識得
點樣慢慢入侵石頭。

啲祭司喺火光下面，
用金杯斟酒，
低聲叫我做：水。

唔係河。
唔係雨。
係深海入面嗰種黑水，
靜到連月光都驚。

我行過人間，
唔留腳印。
但每個碰過我嘅人，
最後都改變咗形狀。

有啲男人以為
硬先至叫力量。
佢哋着住鐵，
講說話似刀。

但我見過山崩。
見過王朝腐爛。
見過最利嘅劍，
最後生銹喺潮濕入面。

而我仲流緊。

我唔需要征服。
水從來唔攻城。
水只係等。

等裂縫。
等黑夜。
等你終於攰到
放低自己。

然後我入去。

似情人嘅手。
似絲綢。
似一句冇講出口嘅「返嚟啦」。

慢慢包圍你。
慢慢浸透你。
直到你連痛都唔再反抗。

祭司話：
最危險嘅水，
永遠睇落最平靜。

所以我微笑。
所以我安靜。

而你聽見嘅，
只係我退潮之後——
留喺你骨裏面
嗰陣餘響。

They called me water.
Not because I was gentle—
but because I knew
how to enter stone.

The priestesses spoke it softly
through incense and gold bowls,
their mouths half-shadowed by flame:

Water.

Not river.
Not rain.
But the dark water beneath the world,
so still even moonlight hesitates over it.

I moved through lives
without leaving footprints.
Yet everyone who touched me
changed shape afterward.

Some men believe
hardness is power.
They dress themselves in iron,
speak like unsheathed knives.

But I have watched mountains collapse.
I have watched empires rot from within.
I have watched the sharpest blades
redden into rust beside the sea.

And still—
I remain.

Water does not conquer.
It waits.

For cracks.
For midnight.
For the moment exhaustion
loosens the fist of the soul.

Then it enters.

Like a lover’s hand.
Like silk crossing bare skin.
Like the ache of hearing
“come back”
from a voice already gone.

Slowly it surrounds you.
Slowly it fills you.
Until even your sorrow
stops resisting.

The priestesses once told me:
the most dangerous waters
always appear calm.

So I smile softly.
So I speak low.

And what remains of me
after I have left your life
is only the after-sound—

the tide still moving
inside your bones.

無名蝶夢

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, Poetry2 Comments

半夜醒來，
窗罅仲有雨。
城市啲燈濕到似海底，
霓虹一閃一滅，
好似有人喺另一個世界，
慢慢呼吸。

我坐喺床邊，
赤腳踩住舊木地板，
忽然唔記得——
邊樣先係真。

係我曾經做人，
太耐，太重，
所以先發明咗翅膀？

定其實我一直都係一隻蝶，
輕到連悲傷都載唔起，
只係偶然跌入一副人嘅骨頭，
學識咗孤獨、
名字、
愛同失去。

有陣時我覺得自己
曾經好細。
細到可以停喺一朵白花上面，
等晨光慢慢打開翅脈。

風一吹，
就過咗半生。

而家呢副身體太重。
每一句說話都帶住鐵銹，
每一次擁抱，
都似戰後殘存落嚟嘅溫度。

但夜深嗰陣，
當世界靜到只剩低鐘聲，
我仲會聽到某種細微震動——

好似有對濕潤而脆弱嘅翅膀，
喺我胸口裡面，
慢慢拍動。

我唔敢肯定
自己究竟係邊一樣。

只知道：
有時做人太像一場夢，
而夢裡嗰陣風，
比我呢副肉身，
更加真。

At three in the morning
the city becomes water.

Streetlights tremble
inside the rain,
gold dissolving into black glass.
Somewhere a train passes
like a memory refusing to die.

I wake without certainty.

The room still knows my name,
yet my soul stands at the edge of itself
like a stranger arriving too late
to her own life.

Tell me—

was I once human,
and from exhaustion
invented wings?

Or have I always belonged
to something smaller,
softer,
a creature made for moonlight and brief flowers,
only now trapped inside
this architecture of bone?

There are moments
I remember another gravity.

Not walking—
floating.

Not language—
wind.

A world where sorrow
could not survive long enough
to become history.

Then morning returns.

The body gathers itself again:
its scars,
its rituals,
its elegant disguises.

I pour coffee into trembling hands
and speak in the practiced tongue of adults,
while deep beneath the ribs
something fragile continues beating
against the dark.

Sometimes in crowded rooms
I feel it stirring—

that impossible softness,
that quiet instinct
to drift toward light
without understanding why.

And suddenly
this whole life feels borrowed.

As though somewhere beyond sight
a pale‑winged thing
sleeps among white blossoms
and dreams, with terrible tenderness,
of being me.

星期六朝早

On By MeiLingIn Chōka, PoetryLeave a comment

晨光未開時
窗邊薄霧未散
城市仲瞓緊
遠巴士聲低低
穿過濕冷街角
我一個醒咗
赤腳踏住木地
水壺慢慢起煙
似有人輕嘆
舊爵士樂微微
喺黑膠深處轉
像海潮回身
昨夜夢未走遠
仲留喺我肩側
似你條頭髮
輕輕掂過頸根
令皮膚記得
有啲愛唔出聲
反而更加深
朝光終於入嚟
照住茶杯邊沿
細細一圈金
我望住呢一刻
冇同世界爭
只係靜靜地
將自己還返
畀風吹過之後
仲溫柔嘅心

——反歌——

星期六清晨
連寂寞都瞓慢
唔忍叫醒我

Before morning broke
the pale mist stayed by the panes,
the city asleep.
A distant bus murmured low
through the cold and rain-dark streets.
Alone, I woke first,
bare feet resting on the wood,
the kettle lifting steam
like a woman’s soft sigh.
Old jazz turned quietly
from the depths of black vinyl,
a tide folding back.
The dream of last night still clung
close against my shoulder’s curve,
like strands of your hair
brushing lightly at my neck,
leaving skin with memory.
Some loves never speak,
and because they do not speak
they enter more deep.
At last the daylight arrived,
touching the rim of my cup
with a ring made of gold.
I watched that small moment pass
without wrestling the world,
only silently
returning myself again
to the heart that still stayed soft
after all of the wind.

—Envoy—

Saturday morning—
even loneliness sleeps late,
unwilling to wake.

When the Door Closes

On By MeiLingIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

門關上嘅聲音
落咗喺心底，好似冬天嘅雨，
一滴一滴，凍得我無力反抗。
The hallways of memory echo with your absence,
every step a shadow of the life we built,
now folded like old letters,
soft edges curling in the quiet.

我學識咗行開，慢慢，無聲，
唔再抓住過去嘅手，
只係望住自己呼吸嘅空氣，
發現自由係一種溫柔嘅重量。
I move through the rooms of myself,
touching walls that once held your laughter,
and though the ache lingers like fog,
there is clarity in the stillness,
a tenderness in the absence.

舊愛成咗塵埃，散落喺日光裡，
但我嘅心，重生咗喺風中，
唔再縛於過去，
只係輕輕地走，
感受每一個自由嘅呼吸。
The end carved a hollow, yes—
but within that hollow,
I found a space to rest,
to listen to my own pulse,
to walk alone and know
I am enough,
whole in the silence that remains.