Yumiko is an avid explorer of thoughts, feelings, love, and hopes: still wandering

 through the woods of adulthood. She grew up drawing and expanding her imagination

 through inks, paints, and pencils of color. Now, she is diving into a new medium of art;

 the art of words. She likes movies and romanticizes over things (or overthink things),

 making her look deeply at the world. The conflict of ideal and reality is mesmerizing for

 the author, as they wake her pondering in her bed late at night. What makes this world

 so simple yet so hard to live? She thinks on the first floor of a small apartment room,

 looking out the window, where cars, people, and leaves pass by.

I was looking out the window when I had just finished the final class.

My mouth craved for food. My tongue tasted like acid, and my stomach was curled up in a ball. I made something with tofu, with vinegar sauces. The smell of sesame and tofu slid through my body as the tofu sat on my tongue.

Nothing I make tastes like home

No stroke of chopsticks of mom

no drop of sauces of brother

  no fluffy steam of gramma.

I watched the setting sun tint the clouds; all the soft light turned a creamy orange. Then I smell moisture, these heavy particles of water that slipped through my shut windows.

It starts pouring. 

Heavy droplets hit the asphalt and darkened the dried surface. The droplets made crowns when they hit the ground, making a white layer of tulle. I know the rain is cold, yet the custard-tinted skies say otherwise. I sat with a warm bowl of rice, warming the palms of my hands, watching the rainfall, until the sky darkens to a brown. 

Then to a muted grey.

The heat from my hands dies down. So did the bowl.

I hold on to what you see so tight

With light inside your eyes 

You look at me looking for eyelashes

your nose

your mouth 

I know what you cannot see, eyes closed 

I try to check the back of your head as you braid 

You stare at me, 

Hoping braids are not lopsided 

I look at you a little longer

I imitate your leaning eyebrows 

I touch the crevasses of your skin 

You take out the gooey

That’s gross, but I get it 

I stare; you never smile

I copy your fingers gliding the edge of your nose

I watch you color your skin.

Shading and coloring as you desire 

I look to check, no glitter falls

You finally smile, and I do too