My home in New York has no walls, // no doors.
It manifests on a bench—
white comforter, abandoned mask,
checkered cloth forming the outline
of a place to rest.

This home belongs to no one,
yet every passerby can sense its presence—
not through the visible body,
but through the warmth and traces
left in these everyday things.

This is an invisible home.
In the city, it stands briefly,
like the trace of a dream:
hours, minutes, or just a moment.
Then it's disrupted, // cleaned away, removed,
only to reassemble elsewhere.

Like New York City itself,
it is a collection of countless "temporaries":
belonging to no one,
yet open to everyone.

Here, home is not a place // but a state;
a floating freedom;
that moment when you dare // to stop anywhere,
relax, and feel the wind
blow through cotton blankets.

Between spirea's white clouds
and a single red rose,
between concrete paths
and scattered mulch,
I find my dwelling
in the spaces others overlook.

A bench becomes a bed,
a sidewalk becomes an address,
a garden becomes a sanctuary.

My New York home,
as fragile as breath,
as enduring as the city.
As existing as itself.