[12/15/15]

You can't make homes out of human beings.

The idea of staying still gives him nausea, to this day. He thinks this is all Taichi—being unable to stay still, to quit moving, to pass on the pursue. But he knows that it is also him, and Natsuko, and Hiroaki, and all that they too, taught him. Yamato seeks the thrill of big cities; busy trains; empty, forgotten terraces; quaint little bars and family-owned businesses that will give him the anonimity that he craves.

He leaves for France that summer and Paris, in all its glory, welcomes him with open arms. But Paris tastes like expensive perfumes, Ladurée macarons, fine wine, fresh bread, sharp cheese and sweet, sweet organic honey. It is 1980 again and at the Rue Mouffetard, lovers embrace each other under starry skies, bathe clandestinely in secluded fountains and make love under a pregnant moon. But he finds only melancholy in the badly-lit joints where he plays his harmonica on Tuesdays and Saturdays and soon, even that isn't enough.

Yamato leaves, with half a heart on his hand and a curse on his lips.

New York City is more than scryscapers and heavy billboards; it is all bite, cold steel, sharp edges and it has been years since Yamato felt more at home. The harsh bright lights and deafening roar of traffic, the constant movement—these things, they hide the ugly, the bad, the obscene. Yes, Yamato thinks, he fits right into this place. But there's also Brooklyn and the second-hand bookstores, nouveau art expos, artisan beer, Italian pizza; the revival of a generation of yuppies that are quitting their safe jobs to pursue the romantic life of a boho-entrepreneur.

A part of him will always feel the wretched regret of never calling it home, but he can never bring himself to do so.

At last it is Natsuko who calls him back and though he is at first reluctant, his blood is burning to go back to the land that watched him grow. He is not impressed by the gigantic buildings, and it is not this that he will miss. He was born in the heart of Tokyo to sakuramocchi, okonomiyaki, warm sake (Lapis Lazuli), neko-neko, maid-cafés and love hotels. He finds that the years have not softened Japan, no more than they have softened him and his hard-given name and this, more than anything else, comforts him. Tokyo too is haughty, selfish, and proud.

Not that any of that means anything when he's staring at her, knowing in his heart that maybe home is the crook of her neck and the soft touch of her cheek. He finds in her traces of where he's been and he wonders pathetically if he has spent the last few years chasing down her ghost. All cities where she lived, caught between her teeth and rattling in her throat. The roads he walked, easy to follow in the blue veins of her body and he can't help but imagine how they'd travel the entire circumference of earth three point five times and he'd be glad to unravel every last one of them. He can see the entire history of his forefathers in the graceful length of her fingers, the elegant column of her throat, and the way she looks at him is enough to make him want to cry.

She says, "Look at the stars, Yama-chi!" or else, "Come here, Yama-kun," or, "Open your mouth, Yamato-san," and, "Touch me, Ya-ma-to." And he can only look up, move closer, kiss her, love her, fuck her into the headboard, always moving too fast, too dazed, flitting between feeling himself light as air and denser than mercury. She is not a place; she is all places, the body of an atlas and countless routes and maps that always lead him back to her.

And he knows, with a bone-shattering certainty, that this is home; her lips, her eyes, the slender curve of her foot and the ivory of her ribcage. And he knows, that her body is the place where love comes to die.

Notes: Writing is difficult. I don't know why, but there was absolutely nowhere I could include Mimi's name in without somehow disrupting the feeling I had been weaving since the beginning. It's a little choppy and maybe one day, when I am a better writer, I will be able to fix the transitions and edit this into the piece it deserves to be. For now, accept this humble attempt and love me, please.