The train announcement says tsugi wa Shibuya
and I know which body to become—
the one that doesn't apologize for existing in doorways,
that folds inward like origami,
that counts stations instead of breathing.

In London I walked too fast, too straight.
Here I am water finding water.

My mother texts in romaji because
her phone doesn't remember kanji anymore.
Genki? she writes, and I write back I'm fine
in a language that means we've both
already translated ourselves into
something easier to send.

*

At the convenience store at 2 a.m.
the clerk and I perform our ritual:
irasshaimase, the plastic basket,
the exact change, arigatou gozaimasu,
and in this exchange we are both
perfectly understood and completely alone.

I think about the word ma—
not the mother, but the space between.
The pause that gives the sentence meaning.
The room that isn't empty, just
listening.

Outside, the vending machines hum
their fluorescent lullabies.
I carry my small purchases home—
milk, bread, the weight of being
fluent in leaving,
fluent in return,
fluent in neither.

Someone once asked me where I'm from
and I said the subway,
and they laughed, but I meant it.
I meant the in-between.
I meant the doors that open and close.
I meant the voice that announces arrivals
in a language I understand
but will never quite speak
the way my mouth wants to remember home.

#poetry #identity #belonging #Tokyo