In a place made up of my own dreams,
the rocks timidly cover themselves with moss and vine.
Even in this place, made up of the purest honey and lullabies,
absence was conquered
not with a sword or a battle cry
but with a gentle sigh that brushed up against castle stone, the soft melancholic pull that inverted my chest

Why are you harbored so far off from the shore?
My dearest isle of dreams