The kettle whistles like a tired bird,
I pour the water, watch steam rise
it curls the way my thoughts curl
when I try to remember
if I am late,
or simply alive.

On the bus window,
raindrops slide in slow races
each droplet a planet
falling into another.
My reflection stares back,
half ghost, half passenger,
and I wonder
how many versions of me
are running late today?

At the crosswalk,
the signal blinks red,
but inside my head
a green light keeps flickering,
telling me go, go, go
toward something unnamed.

Every day feels like this
a dream disguised as routine.
The world hums
with vending machines, traffic lights,
half-burnt toasts,
but underneath it all,
I feel a secret rhythm,
a heartbeat hidden
between footsteps,
between sips of tea,
between the moment I blink
and the moment..