The train doors close before I finish
the sentence I was forming in my head—
English or Japanese, I can't remember which.
Both languages feel borrowed today,
like coats that don't quite fit.

At the konbini, I ask for a bag
in the wrong accent. The clerk smiles,
answers in English. We're both
trying to meet each other halfway,
missing by inches.

Home is a word I translate differently
depending on who's asking.
実家. My mother's kitchen.
The flat in Camberwell with the broken radiator.
This city where I know the train maps
better than I know myself.

Last night I dreamed in subtitles—
white text floating over dark water,
words I could read but not speak,
a voice that wasn't mine
saying things I'd always meant to say.

---

Thresholds

You set your coffee down between us
on the platform bench. Steam rises,
disappears into November air.

I think about telling you
that さようなら doesn't really mean goodbye
the way you think it does,
that there's a weight to it, a formality
we don't use with people we'll see again.

But instead I watch the 9:17 pull in,
the space between us suddenly
full of all the things
two people can't say
in any language.

You pick up your cup. I pick up mine.
We cross the yellow line together,
stepping into different cars.

Later, I'll translate this moment
into both tongues, try to find
which version sounds more true.
Neither will be.

#poetry #identity #language #belonging