YOUR HANDS BELONG IN FLORIDA

it's painful to think that i am alone, again.

in the airport i miss my niece, obviously.

i miss my mom and dad, my sister patty and glenn.

i miss kimchi smell in the mornings,

sweaty feet at night from the florida humidity,

i miss stories told at the dinner table that i had never known:

your grandfather was a wrestler and went semi-pro;

i once ate raw rice for two weeks straight when i crossed over what is now the demilitarized zone;

my best friend died in philadelphia the day you were born;

now all we talk about is how my grandparents are gone

and that i should quit smoking

instead of the fact that i really will miss the ocean and

the clouds which wisp along across the horizon,

and the sun particular to the south.

i miss listening to songs that i never listened to anywhere else.

i miss the awkward hugs.

i miss warm hands sweaty hands with which i typed early in the morning with so much to write

right now,

i miss having the feeling of missing something,

somewhere,

someone.