Bilangue

Going there is like
shrugging on a stranger's
coat that fits me well
enough. It keeps me
warm, but it's a little
tight on the shoulders,
and I can't always
remember what
I put in which
pocket.
(A piece of gum does
not mean the same thing
as a hair clip,
though it could perhaps
be substituted.)

It feels like writing with
a borrowed pen
with sporadic ink flow.

It feels like kissing
a stranger.



Coming home is like
slipping back into
shoes you've worn
for years and years
but never stopped
to think about,
because it feels
like wearing
nothing at all.

It feels like
getting on a bike
after five years
bikeless.

It feels like
speaking after
two minutes'
silence.

Like breathing,
after holding your
breath.