The feeling of a single bead of sweat sliding down my spine,
the space between the curvature of my vertebrae,
enough to allow the humidity
a place to express itself.
The feeling of the monkeys jumping
from tree to tree in the fading light,
their eyes all watching us
as we tried to move from pavement to street.
The feeling of butter cheese in carefully floured bread,
the soft textures dissolving against mouthfuls of laughter.
The feeling of perfection–flowers fully formed,
their yellow petals vibrant against the pavement,
a slice of beauty outside the entrance to a military base.
The feeling of dark energy,
mannequins separated by a single pane of glass,
spirits about to reach out,
grab you, trap you in their world.
The feeling of art–pizza cooked in a brick oven,
the edges of the crust burnt ever so slightly,
the lightness of the sauce, cheese, bbq onions, chicken,
all marinated by the free flow of an artist
enjoying a glass of red wine over some feel-good house music.
The feeling of time–the layers of history
stacked in a single place,
captured in long wooden tables,
red brick buildings,
the use of Japanese words
on the MRT stops and signs.
The feeling of freshness–the mangos surprisingly sweet
against the shaved ice,
their open hearts pressed
against the remnants of a long summer.
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