You're not quite Jiro.
Your skin is paler
Than the paper plane he flies,
And your words aren't as soft,
Echoing against the metal shell,
The chest of the vessel
We rest in.
But I listen to you
Talk about planes
And engines and machinery
Like I can follow a damn thing,
Resting my head and elbows
On your knees,
Needing to feel a bit pretty
As if I could be anything close
To Nahoko.
But I'm not a wife.
I'm not that Japanese.
I'm a woman,
Blessed and cursed to live alone.
YOU ARE READING
Rose, Prose, Poetry
PoesíaExploring topics of love, limerence, grief, and everything in between, this is a collection of 100 poems written over a year. The works both reflect inner emotions and outward connections, attempting to capture the interconnected nature of the worl...
