you with that sing-song voice, calling me yaya as i come home, tugging at my heartstrings - a dull aching in my heart - knowing that it is never too late to renew a love which is only reserved for siblings, a love gone cold by our fragmented ways in this place.

you with your funny ang moh pseudo blonde hair, looking more mat with the passing of each day, you with your piercings all over - you, whom the narrow-minded typecast as the wayward, the misguided, the one-gone-wrong and me, laughing at their [mis]judgements and knowing inwardly that you possess that heart made of gold, that tender heart - only to be bled dry by their blindness to your person.

you - whom i would protect always, for whom i would not let harm befall upon.

you with that heart, in a world that knows not hearts.

***

that ring with the two separate pathways, converging into one unifying totality.