The clothesline
I keep older notes here the way my neighbour keeps towels on the shared line — not for show, but so they can dry in the open air and stay usable. Some pieces still have other people in them: a bus uncle, a kopi auntie, a stranger on a staircase. Others are only me, a corridor, a table, the sea wall without conversation. Both kinds belong on the same rope. Newest clips sit higher so I can reach them first when I come back looking for a particular afternoon.
Notes with other people in them
The coffee uncle who had my order ready
Kopi-c kosong before I reached the counter, and a nod that counted as hello.
Eleven stops along the coast road
A schoolgirl counted halts aloud until the sea appeared between two blocks.
Wet market stairs at half past seven
A vegetable auntie and the same question about coriander, asked every Tuesday without hurry.
Fifty-One Chin Swee Road, Late at Night
Footsteps, pooled light, and the plain limit of what I saw from my end of the road.
Notes with nobody in them
The park connector that ended at the sea wall
Concrete, mangrove edge, and the moment the path forgot it was inland.
Five-foot way tiles that held the afternoon
Geometric colours underfoot and no voice except the shutter rolling halfway up.
The kitchen table under the fan on setting two
Only the hum of the blades and a cup cooling without anyone to share it.