[Fifty Tanka Poems] Sorry, You Wanted Cola, Didn't You

I have selected and compiled a few Tanka poems that were published this year.

Stuffing my bag with more unread books than I could ever finish, I jump onto the bus.

Every time my pile of unread books grows, I feel like I'm getting one step closer to your world.

On nights I cannot sleep, I quietly turn on the radio, hoping to meet you in my dreams.

May the disposable chopsticks of mean people always split in a weird way.

As I take out ice cream to eat, the low-pressure systems pull me back into my futon.

Low-pressure systems sell me a migraine; if only I could resell it, I'd be rich.

I heard you have migraines too; just knowing that makes it feel not so bad.

Putting in eye drops in the dark is like a hunter searching for treasure on a map.

A black and white cat dives toward the window, while the small bird escapes, blocked by the glass.

As cat hair dances and dissolves into the air, the sediment of my heart also dances and melts away.

If I lie down at the very top of the stairs, surely a cat will come by eventually.

Holding back the cat that digs its claws into my sweatshirt to climb, I say, 'That's my snack. Wait, ah!!'

Stepping onto the escalator, I am reminded of the hesitation I feel before jumping into a game of double Dutch.

A 20% off sticker—'How much will it be?' It's a croquette, well, it's cheap anyway, so I guess I'll buy it.

The edges of the potatoes blur and fade away, becoming the shadow protagonist that dominates the curry.

Meeting a friend with whom I can say 'beer for now,' I bathe in alcohol without a moment to catch my breath.

Fitting the fried chicken into my stomach like a puzzle, I find happiness lying on the cold floor.

Eating one more, then another, the potato chips vanish as if spirited away.

At 2:00 AM, in a dream of my stomach growling, I am proposed to by a cup of instant noodles.

8 PM, wearing bold red lipstick, the city neon lights reflect in my eyes

Sweating, taking a bath, sweating again, and then finished off by the hair dryer

Even if I complain with a roar, it's drowned out, and the hair at the back of my head still won't dry today

Lured by the convenience store lights, a young beetle lingers like a delinquent

3 PM, the wind chime rings, wishing for coolness, but it's a little too early for a walk

Removing a stone stuck in the sole of my shoe, I think about the long journey ahead

If I scooped it with a spoon and put it in my mouth, the clouds look like they might make me furrow my brow

Stared at from beyond the grass, the ginger is asked, 'When will you come out?'

Crape myrtle—do monkeys really slip on it? I wait and wait, but there's no performance

A lukewarm breeze strokes through the school window, longing somewhere for the adult world

It was the words on the screen that filled the bumpy holes in my heart.

Nostalgic for the past borrowed from a teacher, I bought my own copy of 'Salad Anniversary'.

I read books as if to fill the empty holes, not knowing if they were ever filled.

I read so much I had to replace my contact lenses, just wanting to read the same books as you.

I press the 'like' button a little harder, hoping you might write a tanka poem too.

Whether it becomes a love letter is up to you; I type five characters while lying in bed.

I don't intend it to be a love letter at all, but if you call it a love letter, maybe it is.

I chug a canned cocktail and whisper that I love you, as that is all I can manage.

The poems of you, whom I have fallen for, are so dazzling that I shrink back into the shadows.

With heart-shaped glitter on my thumb nail, I press 'like', hoping my feelings reach you.

I was laughing while looking at your 'likes' list, where you said, 'I'm so easy to read, even to myself.'

Reading a note that quotes someone else's writing, I realize that I love your writing.

Noticing the change in your writing style, I stop reading, left behind in the past all by myself.

The text on a phone should look the same for everyone, yet for some reason, yours looks beautiful.

Hearing that you're feeling unwell, I blurt out, 'I wish I were you.'

The seriousness with which you choose a bento at the station somehow makes you look very strong.

You say, 'If you mix barley tea and milk, it becomes coffee milk'—there's no way that's true.

Even though we didn't make any plans, somehow, just like that, I was able to meet you.

If only I were secondhand smoke, or sweet olive, then I could stay by your side forever.

The feelings I want to convey get tangled in my throat, becoming a heavy, iron ball that sinks deep.

Apologizing to the ice used to cool my burn, 'Sorry, you wanted cola, didn't you'