My heart aches for a comfort I once knew—
not a place, not a person,
but a breath of warmth, a vanished echo,
a feeling I cannot trace.
It lingers in the salt of a memory
dissolving on my tongue,
in the brittle edges of old polaroids
where time has smudged our names.
I gather museum tickets
like relics of a past life,
paper-thin proof that I
belonged somewhere once.
But going back is like stepping
into a house where all the furniture
has been rearranged—
familiar, yet wrong.
Homesick for a ghost, I wander.
Hoping, searching,
For a voice, a touch, a sign—
anything that will whisper:
"You have arrived. You are home."
