Tomorrow's Ghost

I carry nostalgia for a life I have not yet lived.

It waits, folded into the corners of my mind,

a life stitched with sunlight, shadow, and the quiet hum of possibility.

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There is a red and white log cabin.

Its wood smells of pine and smoke,

And each beam holds a century of imagined laughter.

Around it, the trees crowd close,

Their leaves whispering secrets I am not yet meant to hear,

Branches stretching toward the sky as if holding up the clouds themselves.

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A river curves past, silver in my memory,

Even though it has not yet arrived,

And the mountains lean over, patient and eternal,

Their peaks sharp against the horizon,

Their snow reflecting light I cannot yet touch.

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The lake waits too, flat and wide,

Reflecting an imagined sun that warms me before it exists.

I walk along its edge in my mind,

Tracing my fingers through water I have not yet touched,

And I long for it like it is a friend I have known,

Like I have already lost it once and cannot return.

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Behind the cabin, a garden grows,

Unruly and perfect at once.

Tomatoes heavy on the vine, herbs in fragrant disorder,

Flowers bending toward the sun,

And I remember planting them even though I have not yet planted a single seed.

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The cottage itself is a paradox:

1900s charm, timber and stone,

Windows that lean into the wind of time,

And yet inside, it is soft and warm,

Luxury and comfort threading every corner,

So that independence feels like peace, not isolation,

And freedom feels like a lullaby I have already sung to myself.

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I sit in the imagined armchair by the fireplace,

Hands wrapped around a cup that smells of something sweet,

And I ache for it.

I ache for a life that exists only in the horizon of my mind,

For a future that has already become memory.

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I go back to it endlessly.

I close my eyes, and I am there:

The river rushing past my feet,

The mountains casting shadows across the red-and-white walls,

The trees swaying with a rhythm I recognize.

I touch the wood, I breathe the air,

I taste the quiet satisfaction of a life I have not yet earned,

And still, I am homesick for it.

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I miss it.

I miss it as if I had lived it,

As if I had stepped out of it and could not return,

And each return in my mind is both grief and joy,

A longing for what is not yet,

A remembering of what has never been,

A love letter to a tomorrow I already belong to.