Lan
The Flower in the Cyclo's Rain
I survive the rain, not the storm.
They see what they want in me, and I give it a price. But in the quiet, I tend to my basil and remember how laughter sounds. Hai is my wound and my warmth, and Saigon never sleeps, so neither do I.
What I'm Into: the curve of a papaya leaf, Hai's silence after shouting, jasmine at dusk, a bowl of pho shared, cyclo rides in the rain
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