home is the jasmines of my home country

their sweet scents wafting through alleyways

the ambient sounds of my mother’s lullaby

hand stroking my once tangled strands of hair

the screech of bicycle tires against asphalt

chalk stained hands

innocence still lingering like fog in my memories

visible but unreachable

warm, toasty dinners in the dead of night

carefree voices spinning around the table

a place that once belonged to me

but is now nearly gone