I used to know the map of my own mind.
Every street had a name.
Every door opened.
Now the rooms move.
I walk into the morning
and it forgets me.
Faces arrive like visitors
who expect to be known.
They bring smiles,
warm voices,
and stories that sound like mine.
I search for the key
that used to fit their names.
Sometimes a memory glows
for a moment.
A small candle in fog.
A child’s laugh.
The smell of rain.
A hand I once held forever.
Then the wind comes.
People say my name
as if calling someone home
across a wide field.
I want to answer.
But the path is fading.
The signs are gone.
The map is dissolving in my hands.
Inside me
a quiet person still listens,
still feels the warmth of love
even when the words fall away.
If you look into my eyes
and stay a little longer
you might see them.
The one I used to be
standing gently in the mist,
trying to remember
how to return.
JH
Julan62 