An immigrant, a refugee, a stranger.

I’ve seen you from when I couldn’t yet name you. Out of the familiar, and you tidy up your face as if feeling the touch of my surprised, hateful eyes. The transformation of the figure is on the process; too late to hide the dirty dishes.

And the smell sneaks through my nostrils and hugs the walls of the throat. As a warm handmade scarf it slowly squeezes to not let the vomit burst out. Too late to get a mint gum.

The uncanny hits stronger. I honestly hate the look of your white curly hair, worn out from years, my birthdays, everyday work, obligatory kisses and pure goodnight stories that you wish I’d listen till the end. Your back seems rounder than it was yesterday. I rush to the kitchen, find the box stuffed with your young photos and as a starving slave of your past, I push my eyes inside those still moments. Tall, wide-shouldered, proud- gazed. How did your body forget its material so quickly? Doesn’t it feel ashamed? Maybe that is why the whole skin is reddish.

He goes to work taking with him the heavy odor of cigarettes and my history of exile.