I Threw Water After Your Steps

This morning, I woke up with a splinter in my heart. I shook you awake, putting the water to boil before going to the bathroom. When I came back, I found you hunched over the kitchen counter trying to open one of the three boxes of tea you keep specifically for me. Your suitcase was resting against the door and I couldn’t help but feel scared that I’d never see you again. I still remember the day we first met, little kids that didn’t know how intertwined their lives would become. We came into this country together with hope for the future and stars in our eyes. Yet the stars in mine have dimmed ever so slightly at the knowledge that you’ll be gone tomorrow. You’ll go back home and I’ll be here, stepping on the 9381,7 kilometers tightrope to make my way to you, hoping you’ll be waiting for me on the otherside of the Atlantic separating us.

In the afternoon, I used the very cup I drank tea out of and filled it with water from the sink. We hugged perhaps for two seconds before you put your suitcase in the trunk of the Uber and left for the airport. I prefer it this way— if we hugged for longer it would feel like an actual goodbye instead of a see you later. I looked at the water in my cup one last time before throwing it after the car. The water settled into the tire tracks in the ground and melted into the earth.

Su gibi git, su gibi gel