Knowing

It’s always at around 2am 

when you’d go outside for a smoke,

and stare up into the night sky

to ask your questions of what is reality,

and why we matter. 

And it’s at these moments I wish 

I had paid better attention in physics class, 

because I never really know the theories, 

or the mechanics you use

to map out constellations in the space above us;

to me it’s nothing more than cigarette smoke

floating and fading into the darkness. 

But today, I understand,

because I know the gravity of having to wait 

ten thousand feet in the air. Because I know 

how pointless it is

to plea, or race against time, who’s indifferent to love 

or pain. Because I know 

the physicality of a plane landing,

where the sensations of heavy metal touching down 

always hits the tarmac before your heart is ready.

Because I also know

that heat does not wait for us to escape a body,

whether you are flying across an ocean

or just a train ride away.

I never knew the grief of knowing

that life is too impatient for a loving son

rushing to get home,

and I wish I were still 

just lost in the beautiful universe you’ve spun

ignorantly sitting next to you.

My Happy Ending

I've never thought of
myself as a fairy tale princess
before tonight,
before you pulled me out
to dance on that dusty floor;
the back and forth between us
a waltz I didn’t recognize,
the music just words you said I’d like,
a tongue you promised I’d enjoy.
Was this ever meant to be romantic?
The way you held my face,
my head—I thought a gentleman
was meant to hold my hands, my waist?
I was told to relish the kiss,
the one for which I needed to open up more,
the one that leads to wedding bells,
and celebrations; walls coming down,
and rainbows coloring the sky above.
I was told
if we went to bed, and let you inside
all the magic would come
early next morning;
my happy ending.

Hanoi

My heart, like a Hanoi sidewalk,

was never meant for footsteps, 

just a crowded parking space, 

already full of noise making machines, 

yet somehow you always find a spot, 

a crevice left vulnerable 

that you force yourself in. 

I guess my landscape just tolerated 

the way you invade so imperialistic, 

in and out you shift

and penetrate my borders; 

erect me like architecture

and come inside like a colonial affair,

leaving me hollowed, not knowing how

or why I’m supposed to sustain this pretense of 

loyalty, or love, to an adventurer 

who never meant to stay.

I wanted to be
the dirt path on which you walk, 

the place for a breath of winter air 

rather than mild pollution;

your Annapurna, 

El Camino,

and not just 

your Hanoi sidewalk.