Maps of Misremembered Places

I carry them folded in my chest
maps of places that never stayed.
Not by memory,
but by ingrams.
 
My visuals are always blurry.
Other senses are sharp.
Geomantic empathy.
Nostalgia can be a stop.
 
Streets blur into sepia
during warm evenings.
Rain adds drama
to the silent pavement.
 
I trace them when the night is slow,
wondering if the sea was really that blue.
If the house still leans
toward the same morning light.
 
Memory redraws what memory ruins,
turning rivers into roads,
faces into fading cliffs.
Darting shadows on dimly lit streets.
 
Some skies are dark even with no clouds
Starlight on a grassy rotunda.
Echoes of wary footsteps.
whispers absence.
 
And though I never find the way back.
It feels enough to know,
that I once belonged somewhere
I don’t want to be found.