A young girl lived here once
she was as happy
as beautiful
as —
you.
You used to sing to me in your mother tongue
and I will sing to mine
just as you sang to yours.
Morning mists of family
coffee kissed with cardamom
and distance.
We called it the bench of tears
after all the weeps and cries we had there.
Sights of the leaves
silently napping alongside parking meters
and the way you would call my name.
The same way violent cedar winds grazed my face
and entered through my hair.
A touch
a feeling.
It is there, still.
She was as happy
as distant
as she was home,
as she was with you.