I wake at 3am to the hum of the refrigerator,
a sound I know in two languages—
reizouko and fridge,
both words failing to capture the loneliness
of a kitchen lit only by its own cold light.

My grandmother used to say
the dead visit us in our dreams,
but I think they live in objects:
the teacup with the chipped rim,
the scarf that still smells faintly of her perfume,
the way I fold my clothes
exactly as she taught me,
precise corners, edges aligned.

***

In the train window, my reflection
floats over the city lights—
neither inside nor outside,
a ghost commuting between worlds.

The woman next to me is reading a book
in a language I recognize but cannot speak.
We are all strangers here,
shoulder to shoulder,
pretending we are alone.

I think of my mother's voice on the phone,
asking when I'll come home,
but home is a word with too many addresses:
the apartment where I sleep,
the house where I grew up,
the city I left,
the city I'm learning to love
in small, reluctant increments.

***

Tonight I will translate someone else's love poem,
searching for the English equivalent of natsukashii—
that ache for something lost that was never quite yours.

The word doesn't exist.
I will write "nostalgia" and know I have failed,
but this is the work:
to carry what cannot be carried,
to say what cannot be said,
to live in the space between
and call it something like home.

Outside, it's starting to rain.
I know this sound too,
ame falling on rooftops,
the same water, different names,
washing everything clean
and leaving it just as it was.

#poetry #identity #bilingual #displacement #belonging