humidity makes your picture curl up on the ends of my hair. the stamp i saved for the envelope has long found some other home inside my carry-on. i can't find the letter i wrote to give you; not that it matters, because ink runs at sight of foreign land. the newscaster hums words in some language and it smelled faintly of your name. sweat beads following the curves of my face are not as salty as the ocean that sways me. sighs frequent my lips, where rather, i long nothing more than a hammock. and would i catch you there if i could, at least by night time, to hear of troy and heracles connecting dots on either ends of the world.
(c) 2005 mai kozai, in japan
silence is also music. {6:36 AM}
the poet
mai sharona.
december 5, 1984.
davis, california.
a sucker for flowers.
