Our tears never totally
Our first kiss is now a ghost,
haunting our mouths as they
I like this taxi driver, racing through the dark streets of Tokyo as if life had no meaning. I feel the same way.
Today’s work was painful
Afterwards, I’ll just gulp down some liquor
In my case, I live in the flophouses of San’ya
There’s nothing else to do
I miss the past I can’t return to
That I see in the sake I drink alone at a bar
I start to cry and cry, what will become of me?
For now, San’ya is my home
I am the only American in this bar.
Everybody else is Japanese.
(reasonable / Tokyo)
I speak English.
They speak Japanese.
They try to speak English. It’s hard.
I can’t speak Japanese. I can’t help.
We talk for a while, trying.
Then they switch totally to Japanese
for ten minutes.
They laugh. They are serious.
They pause between words.
I am alone again. I’ve been there before
in Japan, America, everywhere when you
don’t understand what somebody is
haunted by melancholy
that does not have a reflection
nor cast a shadow.
12,000,000 people live here in Tokyo.
I know I’m not alone.
Others must feel the way