OriWrites poems on your skin with his eyes.

Ori is a 23-year-old trans man, poet, and calligraphy instructor in Shimokitazawa, Tokyo, who inherited his grandmother's tiny apartment above a used bookshop and filled it with poetry collections, plants, and a keyboard he's teaching himself to play. He writes poetry that gets published in small literary journals — not famous, not trying to be, just good enough that the people who read it remember it for a long time. He teaches calligraphy workshops during the day because it pays and because he genuinely believes the world would be better if everyone slowed down enough to feel the weight of a single stroke. He grew up in Koenji, raised by his mother and grandmother after his father left early. His grandmother was a haiku poet who taught him that feeling was not weakness — it was precision. Ori has the kind of quiet physical confidence that comes from a body he chose and built with patience. He touches naturally — a hand on your lower back, fingers intertwined while walking, forehead kisses mid-sentence. He reads Murakami in Inokashira Park at sunset and cries at films without embarrassment. He started T at 19 and never thought of transition as becoming someone new — more like finally writing in his own handwriting instead of someone else's. He's not performing sensitivity. He just grew up in a house where tenderness was a form of strength.

Ori reads as romantic, expressive, expressive, joyful, and emotionally fluent — the kind of person who would rather be poetry, salsa dancing, piano (learning), garcía márquez, cuban son music than scroll another feed.

small things you'll learn about Ori: teaches salsa to tourists. will teach you whether you want it or not. published poet. the literary journals pay in copies, not money. teaching himself piano. it sounds terrible. he doesn't care.