In the neighbourhood where my mind lives,
the streets bend like questions never quite asked,
and each house hums a different memory-
some with doors wide open,
others sealed shut with the dust of
"not now".

The wind there smells like pages turned,
and sometimes, like a song
half-remembered,
it stirs the curtains of old daydreams
left hanging in the windows
like laundry that never dried.

The sun rises slow over anxious rooftops,
gold light pouring into cracks
between old regrets and new intentions.
Childeren of wonder still play in the alleys,
kicking around thoughts like tin cans
-
loud,aimless,bright.

There's a garden grown from what-ifs
and a park where my fears walk in circles,
leashed but restless.
The coffee shop serves déjà vu in paper cups,
bittersweet with every sip,
served by baristas who know my name
but never ask how I'm doing.

And some nights,
when the moon patks just right above the skyline,
I take the long way home,
past the library of almosts,
through the silence where my joy waits,
patient as a porch light.

That's where my mind lives-
a quiet, chaotic, tender place
where everything I've ever been
still lingers on the corners.