Seoul

I don’t dream of you in neon–

I dream of your mornings,

the bus sighing at the stop,

school uniforms flooding the street.

You don’t rush to greet me anymore.

You wait,

in the chipped stairwell to my apartment,

in the sound of church bells on Sunday,

in the stall where the owner

still slips me extra tteokbokki.

Loving you now

isn’t about being dazzled.

It’s about recognition–

the way you stay the same

even when I don’t.