The street remembers more than the people.
Back then, I didn’t have much. But I had this view, and it held me.
There's no wrong time to take a walk.
Everyone loves a dramatic exit -- even the sun.
Steel flowers blooming at sundown.
You don’t need the sea to love you back, but I think it did.
One frame. Two stories. And one of them’s yours.
Soft yellow insists on joy. Even here.
The street still hums with who I used to be.
If it’s still holding on, maybe I can too.
Even concrete tries to break its own pattern sometimes.
I am still learning which light belongs to me.
