Tokyo, Kyoto, Tokyo. In the pitch-black nights, I walk your streets, your alleyways, your back paths and your cross-over bridges. Your empty roads, wet from cold spring rain and breathing heavily after carrying your weight for the day. I sit on your busses, your trams, in your cabs and your bullet train. I feel the ice cold of your wind screaming through me, cutting through my Gaijin skin, my flesh, through my blood. Japan, I know you see me. I’m sure of it. The way you intentionally look away as I walk towards you, begging for a drop of your attention. Your eyes cast down, head bowed. The Sakura have fully flowered now. The blossoms are everywhere.



Millions of pink-white petals filling the trees, falling through the sky, floating down the canals, covering the roofs of cars and being crushed underfoot. Perfectly impermanent. I float down the back alleyways of Shimokitazawa feeling the cherry blossoms brush my face as they fall so thick it looks like snow. Japan, I know you see me. I see you. Your ghosts, they haunt every window and doorway. Every skyrise building and every empty lot. The forests. The railway tracks. The neon lights. The empty palaces. The Samurai memorials. The coffee shops and vintage stores. The pink lounges, the temples and the deserted mountain paths. So quiet and yet so loud. Japan, you don’t see me. But maybe you see me. Every night I burn so brightly, just for you.

06/04/17 Setagaya, Tokyo Japan