I cannot write of home, yet I cannot
not write of it.
Azure train, blaring horn, tinted window
outside: your face
preserver of sunlight
Inside: my face
as though a planet
orbiting the sun,
both
struggling to stay on their axes.
The words which freeze on your lips
find their way inside of me
slowly
rushing, gushing
waterfalls and mountains
echoing with your sounds.
It is in the air
lilac notes of paper crunching
against paper, you spelling out
my existence in cursive handwriting
and I, breathe in each word
holding on,
holding close, every breath
against a dissolving city of lights.
Ma, your face is a city of lights.
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