‎draft

Morning somewhere else. Cloudy skies. Quiet. Sitting with coffee by the window.
Rice cooking in a small pot. My life in translation. A language—no longer spoken but remembered. Random parts—stacked and forgotten behind the ruins. Lost under trees. Heaped in mounds along the path. Moss covered. Broken. Beautiful.

Four minutes have passed since we met. I wonder what you are thinking. Who are you? How did you get here? Five minutes. The girl dog enters the room, sniffs my foot, leaves. I imagine you. I need you.

I begin with details, the two clumps of bamboo growing in the new garden. Root and clomb. Did I mention I need you?