I drank the last sip of my coffee today and what I saw left in the mug was foam. Like the foam from the tea ceremonies in Fuji -- foam that stuck to my lips like wet grass as I tipped the bowl and let the bitter, powdery remnants slide down my throat; foam of Octavio Paz's beach, boy and girl exchanging limes (love), sea and shoreline exchanging salt.
When I love someone I'm afraid that if I say it aloud, it could vanish like one of my cities; be swallowed like green tea powder; or fly away in the wind like the frothy residue of waves. So I hold it inside, with my landscapes, and hope that it doesn't change.
But of course, I know it doesn't really work this way.