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.
