Dear Faya,
What I want to tell you is
I'm sorry. I tried to call you,
but only months after I got your
number, and I fear it has changed,
even though the voice on the other
end only says temporarily unavailable.
You were my companion in a cafe
in Saint Petersburg
wearing a uniform and speaking
quietly, haltingly
in your second or third language
as I sat and missed home
and ate Greek salad
and helped you fold napkins
into triangles that could fan out
in groups of thirteen
at the centers of tables.
I am sorry that I only took
you to a museum once
that I was only a brief window
into a life outside of your poverty.
I hope
that you continue to enjoy
Bollywood movies.
I hope
that your hair still falls
down your back
straight to the waist of your jeans
if you so choose.
I hope
that someone brings you flowers.
Faya,
teach me your language
I would like to stumble over
the strange words
and put a smile on your face.
Others are listening
but I hope that you hear
that somehow
my words can cradle you
even if my affection
is beyond your frame of reference.
Soon it will be time for you to sleep
and one benefit to being
on the other side of the world
is that I can
in full consciousness
whisper to you
Sweet dreams
And again, fully awake,
welcome you to
the next morning.
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