Painted Streets

A breeze moves first—
palm leaves whispering over one another,
a soft applause above the street.

Hooves strike cobblestone,
measured, certain—
carriages passing like memory.

The sun lowers itself gently,
gold slipping between shoulders,
between hands held on the way to dinner.

Salt and butter in the air,
seafood and ocean mingling—
something warm, something ancient
rising from the street.

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

I stop at a door—
oak, heavy, breathing history—
and push.

Inside:
laughter layered over itself,
fresh bread breaking open the room,
a voice saying welcome
before I can place myself.

A hand gestures — this way —
and we follow,
as if I’ve done this before.

—

Later, I realize
nothing here belonged to me—
not the streets,
not the doors,
not even the light.

And still—
I moved like I knew it.

Like I had always known it.

—

It comes back sideways:
a boardwalk in Florida,
sunburnt evenings,
music leaking from hidden speakers,
my family somewhere just ahead of me—
laughter carried by wind and salt.

The same air,
the same noise,
the same feeling
of arriving without trying.

—

In Charleston,
on streets painted past their borders,
I understood something—

how place can hold you
without asking,

how beauty doesn’t announce itself,
just surrounds,

how belonging
can be borrowed
and still feel true.

—

The street keeps going.
The colors don’t end.

And for a moment—
neither do I.