Streets Of Old

There are days I find myself
tucked into some quiet corner,
watching dust drift lazily
through a sunlit room.

There’s an odd beauty in that, you know—
how light catches the forgotten,
how time lingers in the hush of stillness.
And before I know it,
my mind is wandering
down streets of old.

Not to relive, but to walk beside—
as if with a friend
who knows the stories
but lets me tell them anyway.

We pass familiar corners:
the railroad tracks where I once played,
laughter rising like smoke
into the dusk.
Further on—
the quiet ache of a first goodbye,
the long stretch of silence
between love and leaving.

There’s no judgment in this walk,
only noticing.
Each turn,
a lesson I didn’t know I learned.
Each shadow,
a shape I once mistook for fear.

And I think—
maybe the point was never to understand,
but to witness.
To walk the old roads
not to retrace,
but to let them speak.
Because the past,
it never stays behind—
it walks beside us,
quiet as breath.