Eka

Eka

The hook clasped to your chest yanking at you when you say the last goodbye and listen to the train whistle
When you haul the green backpack and for a moment you’re on the yellow brick road,
only to realize Dorothy is leaving alone and you’re Toto
The almost nauseous grief of being here and not there
The alternate universes that’ll never be
The strange green and blue inks that bleed between the pages of a passport
Those flickering images on the television of places that’d go poof once you press the remote
The magnets that cram the fridge door but say the same few names over and over
That point just beyond the budget line
The foreign languages you gave up on
The truth of knowing one body, one circle of existence
The truth of being bred by one ethnicity
The truth of knowing only one life fully while the rest is just bokeh
The truth of being you;  just you
Tiny, limited, grounded.