I dreamt of you last night—
a wild, passion-filled
dream of you.
I woke in the hush
with words on my lips,
a poem, maybe,
spinning in the dark.
But warm in the hush
of some soft afterglow,
I let it go—
and drifted back
into the dream of you.
We walked through a garden
where every flower
whispered a line
I couldn’t hold
but knew was mine.
I woke with the sun
and nothing written—
no lines, no rhyme,
just warmth in my chest
from the dream that stayed.
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 6:27 AM UTC
I dreamt of you last night—
a wild, passion-filled
dream of you.
I woke in the hush
with words on my lips,
a poem, maybe,
spinning in the dark.
But warm in the hush
of some soft afterglow,
I let it go—
and drifted back
into the dream of you.
We walked through a garden
where every flower
whispered a line
I couldn’t hold
but knew was mine.
I woke with the sun
and nothing written—
no lines, no rhyme,
just warmth in my chest
from the dream that stayed.
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