A homeless woman’s plastic bags
and a message written on cardboard.
The plane flew very low, as usual.
I still look up at the sky
whenever I hear the plane’s engine, my dear.
The chaotic airport scenes.
The numbers on the train station platform.
Dim lights in the narrow streets behind hotels.
Wrinkled bed sheets.
Through the years —
tragedy, intimacy, fantasy, and ecstasy
Another day passed swiftly,
marked by poignant goodbyes.
Memories grew more complicated
with layered images.
I walked the streets of Chiang Mai as usual—especially after meeting someone, or saying goodbye. Along the way, I passed mannequins, garbage, plastic bags, the beds of the homeless, and everyday street scenes.
These past years in Thailand have been filled with many goodbyes—to friends, to half-lovers — people I shared warmth with, even if we never named it love. I found intimacy, connection, and affection. Whether fleeting or lasting, all of them ended with a kind of quiet sadness.
I still look up at the sky whenever I hear the sound of an engine—tracing the path of an airplane, the emptiness it leaves behind, and the lingering feeling that I haven’t found a place I can call home.
Maybe I’m afraid to admit how homesick I am.