You keep finding that perfume—
the one your grandma used to wear,
a lavender mist mixed with old stories,
and you breathe it in
just to feel her arms wrap around you again.

You crave the ice scramble
from the street vendor who’s long been gone,
its sweet, gritty chill on your tongue,
a taste of afternoons when the world
was small enough to hold in your palm.

All year, you've been waiting for Christmas,
but when it comes, the magic doesn’t.
The lights blink, the carols play,
but there’s a hollow echo...