Omiai

There are things you talk about when you talk about running. Terms you use when you whisper about kissing. Currency words, unique identifiers.

Passkeys.

There is a look that a lover will give you when they want your touch, but don't want to hear themselves saying it out loud.

A nod of the chin, a curling of a lip.

Criteria to be judged. An idea introduced, like iegara from a trusted Nakōdo.

Hashikake, the bridge.
Onegai Shimasu, the request.
Omiai, the meeting.

"The problem is that you never give me anything." She wrote. "Or to
put it more precisely, you have nothing inside that you can give me."

All I have is the tone of your voice. Pictures on a refrigerator. Letters and postcards. A ring on a keychain. The flavor of sugar and cream. Ink on a wrist. A bobby pin on a bedside table, forgotten in haste to get back home before the absence is noticed..

We unite these things. Bring them together in our minds like little arranged marriages between practical items and emotional memories.

Separate, but equated.

Reminders in the music. Messages electronic. All but meaningless to the strangers we encounter in the lives we lead alone. Cultures apart, lost in translation

..like passing whispers on a crowded street.

[Listening to:  NIN - "Every Day is Exactly the Same" ]