whats the waiting for

Sleepless nights,
Silent, uncontacted.

Questions sprout,
Imagination, wild.

What is this I’ve got myself into? There’s too little to run on, too little for expectations. Isn’t it too little to wait too, and also to expect waiting for?

8 weeks since ”初めまして”, and still, no more than words through a keitai. Miles and miles away, physically, culturally, linguistically. “私たちは 何ですか?” are words I ache to ask. And an answer is desired, and yet I don’t wish to hear if the words aren’t what my heart desires.

The Cold

It snows, where you stand.
You speak to me
through our hand-held devices
in a foreign tongue.

It rains, where I stand.
I speak to you
wishing you hadn’t gone home
before I got there.

We both feel the cold,
physically,
and metaphorically.
My kokoro mo.

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