Author’s Note

I’ve had variations of this dream more times than I can count.

Different streets. Different cities. But the feeling is always the same—familiar, grounded… like I’m not discovering something new, but returning to something I somehow already know.

It’s a strange kind of recognition.

Not tied to memory in any clear way, but still deeply felt. Like something in me understands the place, even if I don’t.

This piece came from sitting with that feeling.

Trying to understand whether it’s about location… or connection.

Whether it’s about where I am—or who I haven’t found yet.

— Rowan Evans

Dreaming of Other Streets
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I often dream
of walking streets
not my own.

And they feel
more like home
than the only one
I’ve ever known.

As if my feet remember
a life my body
hasn’t lived—

a map etched
into bone
long before
I learned to read it.

Like echoes
of a life misplaced,
a memory
with no origin—
a familiarity
I can’t explain,
but never question.

Maybe it isn’t the streets
I’m dreaming of.

But the people
who would walk them
beside me—

the ones who felt
like home
long before I knew
what home meant.

Maybe I wander
because nowhere
has ever held me
long enough
to claim me.

So I keep searching
for a place
that feels like mine.

In dreams,
I walk with certainty—
no hesitation,
no fear,
as if the ground itself
knows my name.

But waking,
I am foreign
even to myself.

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]