Homesick for a Place That Never Was.

I dream of doorways I’ve never walked through,
windows that hold the light just right,
a porch that creaks under my imagined steps,
where no one waits—
but it still feels like home.

There’s a tree I’ve never climbed,
whose branches know my name.
A kitchen with cracked tiles
that hum lullabies I’ve never heard
but somehow know by heart.

I ache for the scent of rain
on soil my feet have never touched.
For laughter in a room I never sat in,
for warmth I only borrowed in dreams.

It is not a place,
but a feeling—
a longing stitched into my ribs,
a whisper that follows
when the world is too loud.

I carry it with me,
this home that never was,
and grieve it
as if I lost it.

Even though
I never really had it
to begin with.