Against Homesickness - The Color Yellow
Adam Osman-Krinsky

I know there was a wildfire today.
I didn’t see it because,
It wasn’t mine to see.
    
    But it told me it was there because,
    It knew I missed clouds. Clouds
    That conceal my homelike cement
    Jungle aren’t mine when they travel
    3,000 miles to remind me they exist.

They’ve aged on their flight to me.
Like old parchment, like the details
In a Fuentes novelita, like the oppressive sun.
They arrive yellow.
Burnt.
    
    Yellow like my notebooks, like
    My backpack (that lets people know I’m me),
    Like the banana peels in my garbage can, 
    Like my favorite t-shirt of the local pizza place
    Where the New York water makes the crust taste better.

But those things. Those yellow things are mine.
These clouds belong to too many people.
Too many people that I can’t figure out how to love,
People I don’t know.

    There’s blue on the horizon.
     I don’t know that color
     But they say it’ll get better.

Why shouldn’t I believe them?

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