barefoot in the aisle—

barefoot in the aisle— bangkok, 2005, fluorescent hum filling the gaps where conversation should be.

shelves half-stocked, sugar, glass, dust—

a small gold bottle with two bulls locked mid-impact—

energy, contained, unopened.

i stand between inventory and absence, not buying, not needing—

just holding the frame for a moment longer than it can hold me.

—

outside, a three-wheeled engine idles like a dare—

metal ribs, colored trim, a driver already leaning into the next turn.

no doors, no promise—

just velocity with a seat.

we step out of tile into heat—

no receipt, no closing line—

and climb in like entering a thought already in motion.

—

the city doesn’t unfold—

it strikes.

wind writes across my chest, heat rises off the road like a second sky—

everything immediate, everything now—

knees tucked, hands braced—

bangkok not as place, but as force.

—

and then—

release.

—

we spill out at the edge of it— dusk holding the light just long enough—

where the city forgets its own name.

low roofs, wires sagging like tired signals—

the sky bruised purple into heat—

no towers, no urgency—

just the long exhale of everything that was moving.

the tuk tuk disappears into its own echo—

and i am standing again—

but not the same.

the motion still inside me, the wind still translating—

bangkok behind me like a pulse that doesn’t stop—

even here, at the edge, at dusk—

where the light holds just long enough to remember it.