2.24 am Saturday
It hits me that I am twenty five.
The love of my life is six hundred fifty seven miles away
in a cold train station
probably eating some stroopwaffles
desperately wanting a cup of tea.
Distance has never been a constant number
but the longing is always
a constant reminder of
red threads
connecting souls
between pinky promises in
beige sofa and soft Eskimo kisses.
2.33 am Saturday
I have always dreamed a European dream
but I miss my hills and mountains
and loud noisy river like people
in the midst of a crowded city.
I have always been a Kathmandu girl,
large eyed, hands wide,
I have always asked for freedom
and I drew it in the walls
wrote it in random words
bulky paragraphs that
never followed any rules.
Should they have?
2.40 am Saturday
It is market day tomorrow.
I plan on buying courgette
and butter squash,
large red tomatoes, olive oil,
some cheese and bread,
chic peas, coconut milk,
basil leaves, coriander,
just to get by this week.
I count days on fingers
until I can color my loneliness with
me.
2.46 am Saturday
When he is inside, I change my universes
one second at a time.
I want to run in the cold like him but
the wind burns my lungs.
2.59 am Saturday
There is so much to do,
so many places to go,
I feel like I am breaking into puzzles
again.
And there is no stopping them
until I fall asleep.
Letters and Poems 