top of page

Forget Me In Space

Sher Ting

The stars stared unflinching into my body,

their wild eyes lingering on the epithelium of my thoughts,

curving the night into a question,

curled fetal against my chest:

How do you dream when each dream feels like

a culmination of every half-moon you’ve missed?

How does an asteroid feel,

hurtling into gravity’s reach,

knowing it’ll burn up on contact with the stratosphere,

knowing it is on a one-way trajectory to death?

I blink out sunspots

from lucid dreaming,

unravelling a staccato of lights

across the night-ocean

My breath tunnels rivers of ichor

through a gibbous trachea

The world catches its bones

in my valleculae

Take this body of light, its rinds of miracle and dust,

ambrosial tears percolating into lucent hands

Tell me how it writes itself over and over again

into bold and italic till it writes itself into existence

How it lives like the sun

but feels like rain

How life and quantum superposition are both a paradox,

how I’m dead but alive, and

No one knows the difference

because no one knows me

And though the stars tessellate through the sky

like a pointillist mirage, their eyes to me,

They don’t see that my lungs glisten

from prayers buried in nascent serosa

They don’t see that my liver bleeds

from its daily torment

My body is light-feathered

as a wax-winged metaphor

My skin smolders and fades

like the waning moon

and I fold myself into paper thoughts

and plastic hands, to perform a diorama of existence

as I drift ever-higher into the space

within space,

the hadopelagic gutter

in a dream-solvent system,

where the atoms of my dreams collide

in sublime and luminary gloss,

levitating in cosmic emptiness,

sucked into pitch-black nothingness,

clocking in at zero-gravity

fading into black

till i am empty



About the Author

Sher Ting has lived in Singapore for nineteen years before spending the next five years in medical school in Australia. She has work published/forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Opia Mag, Overheard, and Door Is A Jar, among others. She is currently an editor of INLY Arts and The Aurora Journal, and a poetry reader for Farside Review. She tweets at @sherttt and writes at

bottom of page