Winged

They lied. Tokyo is not as crowded as people think. I rode my last subway on Friday at 1:30 PM; I was alone on that train. Sixteen years old, half the world away from home, An entrepreneur. Two months before, I had said, “If there is one place in this world I’ll never see, That would be Japan.” Yet, as I arrived at Musashifujisawa Station, And began to dig for the key to my home-stay house I realized, I had made it. As the train rattled on, I observed the city I was leaving, and I remembered Standing on the peak of Mt. Fuji: At that moment, too, I had been thinking: I made it. My ripped muscles and collapsed lungs, Worth every painful step, To reach the heaven, Above the clouds. Despite all odds, defiant of reality, I had said I can make it. And I did. The train picked up speed, and we flew Out of the city and into the suburbs, And in the dirty window across, Above the deserted, orange seats, I saw my reflection: I had wings.