I watch my mother's hands
fold the origami swan, again, again,
each crease a muscle memory older than language.

Tsuru—the word catches
in my throat like a hiccup
of inheritance.

In London, someone asked
where I'm really from
and I said yes.

---

My body is a commute between languages,
platform announcements I half understand,
switching lines at the border of myself.

Some mornings I wake up
and can't remember which mouth
I'm supposed to speak from.

The mirror shows a face
that belongs everywhere and nowhere—
a passport photo of almost.

---

Tonight I cook rice
the way she taught me,
washing until the water runs clear.

Mizu. Water.
The same substance, different weight
on the tongue.

I eat alone, watching the city lights
through my flat's window,
each lit square a story I'm not part of.

But the rice tastes like home.
Whichever one that is.

---

There's a word in Japanese—
natsukashii—for the ache
of remembering something beloved.

English makes me explain it.
Japanese lets me feel it.

Tonight I'm both.
Tonight I'm neither.
Tonight I'm the hyphen between.

#poetry #identity #language #belonging