You hopped off the yellow school bus without hesitation, the door handle to your house is still right at your shoulder.

Through the door made of a wood that you’ve never heard of,

up the stairs of a wood that you didn’t care to know. 

Unzipped school bag tossed by the corner, up a few more flights of stairs.

To a balcony laid with cream colored cement, within rusted fences with gold accents.

The air conditioner machine buzzes underneath your bare skin

as you kneel on the sticky, hot metal surface.

It burns the scabs on your knees but you grin. 

You look at your neighbors’ balconies.

A flowerbed of petunias, a drying rack full of clothes.

You wave at them, but they’re not even there.

You speak to them, but they don’t even understand you.

I understood you, I spoke it back to you. 

There’s a particular rhythm to the way you spoke,

every word sounded different, you don’t learn such a language in school,

you barely caught up with your own words.

Yet I caught it.

The curls of a tongue and the clicks of your teeth, the dimple on the left side that follows a vowel.

I don’t see your dimple anymore, but I suppose it’s a part of our language,

which you don’t speak anymore. 

Your mother’s calls ring through the glass panel

that separates you from the rest of the house.

She had noticed your missing uniform jacket, she’s not real happy about it.

She doesn’t speak your language,

you cast one last glance at the flowerbed and drying rack,

scab ripping as you remove yourself

from the air conditioner machine.

Brush it off, there’s always tomorrow and tomorrow

until you forget how those words rolled on your tongue

and how the metal stuck to your legs.