three years- count 'em-

it was papaya and pasta. 'vegetarian' fried rice with ikan bilis in it. an assignment that i failed. my room is above the kitchen, and sometimes i smell meat and curry and i still think, i still think,

of the kitchen that isn't mine. of utensils under the stove. of fingers butter-yellow and dappled with flour. three years- the sink still drips, drips, drips, i still shuck garlic with unskilled fingers,

three years, and you still smell like home