3 am

we like waking up at strange places
that smell of burnt rice and yongchaak

we don’t find stars in our skies
and crawl our ways in loose stockings
in supermarkets where men-women-men hold hands
to pretend they’re not lonely
as if trying to learn to walk away from
the shadows of long days that we’d tucked into our sleeves

our feet are bare at the
beige corners of the café that
sheltered us on choky days when we’d be teary-eyed
gasping as if hundreds of fish bones
were stuck in our throats
and we couldn’t even whisper in each other’s ears

winters arrive slyly
in this ugly birdless city where
flaky hands make quiet cups of ginger tea
before crawling back into our cold beds
that still smell of lovers pressed between
the yellow pages of our favourite stories
the hideouts we never wish to come out of

somewhere, Denver sings, “I’m leaving on a jet plane”
our claustrophobic bodies melt at the mouth
of Mawsmai