Flee

Prose Poetry

I close my eyes and imagine you again. You, who have fled your country. You, who made a new life here. You, who speaks broken English. English itself isn’t broken though. But it’s made broken by those whose mouths it occupies. Like a territory, no, a tongue, no, a territory.

And you, who have fled your country, meet me for coffee in the time we call yesterdays. You, who made a new life here, let me take up some of your precious time, something that cannot be replaced. You, who speaks broken English, and I, who has mastered two languages by choice; a privilege.

Today, we no longer speak. But I hope you still think of me for I still think of you. You, who was conditioned to run from danger. And I, who was unable to love your wounds away.