I live in the south side of Hong Kong,

in this white townhouse by the sea,

with windows looking out at the water.

These big, glorious, delightful windows that go from ceiling to floor.

Where the lilac sky melts into the salted, rose foam.

An ocean of champagne,

a mere, miraculous thirty minutes away from a concrete jungle.

Or do you remember those arched windows?

Summer in Berlin, our favorite place.

How we crawled out into a dream of peonies,

magenta brushing up against linen

embroidered in eggshell.

Or how we stayed up,

with eager eyes,

knowing that if we stretched our necks out

long enough,

we would see the big screens by the Brandenburg gate.

The light showing through the sheer,

dancing in flashes,

parading in flare.

Someone scores,

the crowd goes wild.

I missed home.

I looked out at the chapel from my tiny gridded window.

And I saw the peonies,

and I saw the tides

but I looked out

and I hated that shade of mauve.

The curtains were falling off.

The tides,

these tides,

those tides,

our tides:

so rapid yet so calm,

so soft yet so loud,

knocking against the warm sand,

that kind that blankets your toes

but crumbles

at your feet.

I looked out of my tiny gridded window.

The snow banged on the chapel pillars.

It was that type of cold that made the faded bricks turn a blood red against the chalk.

It was the same color

your lips turn

when they’re too chapped.

That type of cold that tugs

at your sockets and makes your eyes

freeze

and water.

The tide were in my eyes.

With my head against the auburn bed frame,

I told myself that the tides will bring me home.

I told myself that the tides will envelop me and love me

so much

that I will learn to love myself too.

The tides,

these tides,

those tides,

our tides

will bring me home.

I looked out at that tiny gridded window.

I drew the curtains,

I didn’t dare to touch the glass.

Lost in my memory,

fabricated by my nostalgia,

romanticized by that piercing winter,

Home can be two arms too.

Forgetting is so long.