Concrete walls, busy streets-chalked with dreams and memories. Prints a ghost, drifting souls, yet in the distance the group of intimately familiar shadows linger just a little longer, like a tan from the sun—a subtle reflection of what could've been—of what should've been.

A paradox turned into a backdrop, could my mourning fill up the cracks, almost resembling the branches, on the pavement of my favorite walkway? What a vivid image—compared to the mellow soil I step in now, pinning eyes rather than passing judgements as l walk, where every leaf perks with my name, an anchor of unfamiliarity on the steps I make-dissonance blooms, a second skin, parallel reflection of where bustling lights on busy corners used to hit against.

How weird when starlights blink back-closer, yet still more distant than the city lights that once whispered assurance into my walks. if dying dreams become stars, why couldn't mine remain in windows, gleaming softly in passing glances? I don't want them above me. I want them with me–traceable, visible, alive.