Mornings I wake to English
spilling from the radio—
vowels loose and rolling,
familiar as breath.

But in sleep I dream
in a language I can't quite place,
words that dissolve on waking
like sugar on the tongue.

My mother's voice on the phone:
Moshi moshi, 母 calling
across nine hours and an ocean.
She asks if I'm eating well.

I tell her yes in two languages,
neither one entirely true.

---

The train platform at rush hour—
a thousand bodies, silent,
each of us alone
in the press of strangers.

I think of London fog,
how it made the city soft,
erased the edges.
Here, everything is sharp.

Neon cuts through rain.
Vending machines hum their lullabies.
I buy coffee in a can,
atsui, burning my palm.

A woman beside me scrolls through photos
of someone else's life.
We stand so close our sleeves brush.
We will never speak.

---

Some nights I write emails
I'll never send—
drafts to people I used to know,
versions of myself I left behind.

How are you? I type.
I'm fine, I delete.

The cursor blinks.
The room is quiet.

Outside, the city's pulse:
sirens, laughter, the clatter
of heels on pavement.

I close the laptop.
Pour water.
Watch the glass fill.

This, too, is a kind of home.

#poetry #identity #displacement #bilingual