The World of a Migrant Painter

I gathered myself into a glass silence, so the world wouldn’t scatter me.

Outside, everything I love keeps drifting— a house that still breathes my name, my mother’s voice folded in light, my father’s quiet hands I cannot reach.

I sit in shallow water, drawing with a trembling memory, as if each line could stitch distance closed.

Even you, my little cat… somewhere between sleep and longing, you still curl inside my chest.