What I want lives in a world just beyond the one I walk. I see its outline in fogged windows, feel it in dreams that break before they can finish. It is not mine— not because I don't want it enough, but because wanting was never part of the bargain. So I move through alleys that forget the sun, hands in my pockets, eyes chasing ghosts. Sometimes I pretend I have it. A moment borrowed from nowhere— the warmth, the peace, the way the air might feel if things had been different. And for a second, I almost believe. But it fades, as it always does, and I’m left walking beneath a sky that doesn’t look back, beside walls that know my silence. What I want is out there— or maybe it never was. Still, I walk. Not toward it, not away. Just... forward. Because not even the dark waits forever.