I observe the brown rivers in your fingers as you highlight your favourite lines in my poetry
I observe your head, it’s a little bit tilted, as you take pictures of the rusty bones

            of Long Biên Bridge

            no luck finding our names
I observe your snores when everything’s dark and they are like soap bubbles:

            small, spherical, and see-through 
I observe the warmer, concave part on your back when we have sex

            it’s salty

            and my broad face can fit in there
I observe things that can stay when your parents are visiting

            since they are yours-passing

            (mainly they are books and books and more books

            all with guilt-free covers)
            and my clothes, all under your bed

            walled-in by the folding table
            (one time you called in horror:

            “Shoes, you forgot your shoes.”
            Stupid shoes.

            Know your place, stupid shoes.)
I observe the remains of the days

            (it’s three days after another

            of my birthday and soon

            you have to go:

            nobody wants to be here in 2019

            time, with no sign of a second coming, slipped by)
I observe how I start calling you “Kazuo Ishiguro” in my head

            my little Japanese boy

            my gentle Chindo man
I observe you in our favourite bookstore, post-restroom, and it’s as if

            I already need the telescope

            to just have the idea.       of witnessing you