We are built
from a series of small doors
we barely remember opening.

We hug like we mean it—
like we understand
this is the only version
of us that will exist.

Homes stand close,
painted in colors that refuse edges—
they bleed into one another,
into the sidewalk,
into me.

Sometimes,
the less real you make something,
the more it stays.

The air felt different—
heavy, metallic—
but I was four
and had no word for it.