Compost

to be human is nothing more 

than to hold together 

a body of carbon.

so,

put your hands in my hands, 

beloved, and together we will compost 

this fresh mound 

of feeling. 

your heaving hot 

breaths and pulsing chest

are lighter to hold 

with four roasted

palms, 

kneading  

black-gold 

viscous grief

into softer layers 

of chocolate-cake intimacy.

open wide!

lo and behold.

what scraps you bring 

we will bring 

to broil, and decompose 

layers of past

into vigorous little pieces

of teeming nuance,

of petrichor fervour, 

aroma of earthy-musk allure.

your sadness turns to fresh

soul; 

puff-puff 

spoils 

from 

puffed-up

soil;

these tears 

are a

terra treasure.

I know it has hurt and I promise 

nothing ever goes to waste.

your aching heart 

is fresh fungus on a full moon,

blooming baby-white caps 

of innocence,

fairy rings around all of our fruitiest friends,

in bursts of spore and glitter.

I know this life can hurt and I promise

nothing ever goes to waste.

your aching heart 

will always be returned 

to this earth.

Image: Mari Maeda and Yuji Oboshi

Dianne is a Philippines-born and Singapore-raised writer interested in tender speculation. They've also been a queer nightlife organizer and urban farm worker; you can find their writing in Tiger Moth Review, the Fragmentary Institute of Comparative Timelines, and Literary Hub. Their manuscript-in-progress was selected for the 2023 Singlit Station Manuscript Bootcamp, an incubation program hosted by the literary nonprofit Singlit Station.