by sarfrazlodhi
There’s a house in my dreams
with no corners—only soft bends
where silence pools
and time forgets itself.
The walls are seafoam,
as if someone bottled waves
and painted memories
onto plaster that still breathes.
In the kitchen,
a kettle sings
but never boils.
It’s always almost
morning.
In the garden,
the sun blooms too—
bright and warm
and just a little
sad.
Even the roses seem to remember
who they were before
the frost.
I wake up
with salt on my tongue,
a petal in my fist,
and a name I don’t say
written under my ribs.