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Mar 29
My heart feels empty,  
it’s not sorrow,  
but a ghostly ache felt while slipping into a dream.  
I heard you sing, siren,  
the words that made my loneliness fade  
one dusk on a summer night,  
a green flash along the horizon of the world.  

Your song stopped my thoughts,  
and I floated high above the white-capped sea  
through deep, blue shine, silver moonbeams,  
echoes of the sun,  
leading me peacefully through the dark,  
leaving behind the noise of my past,  
the weariness, the struggles, the hard parts.  

And I flew  
away—  
far away I went with you,  
where my heart didn’t ache and time didn’t pass,  
where we wouldn’t grow old  
watching dreams through broken glass,  
where beauty couldn’t fade,  
and fear couldn’t separate twin souls,  
soul mates.  

But now,  
lift the cool night air from my blue feet  
tucked under the soft edges of a warm quilt.  
The music of your voice  
must be filling space beyond here  
I lie in—this fleeting moment,  
alone.  
Out the window I go—  

I no longer see the stars  
behind the shadows of the trees,  
but the night smells sweet—  
wet dirt, cool in the dark,  
coating grounded feet.  
To tread on lilies, clovers, mossy stones,  
breathing life into my bones.  

This is where you’ve left me—  
as you sing around the world—  
standing at the edge of black abyss,  
where death is nothing to fear.  
And I could slip away forever  
should I once more hear,  
mid-song, mid-breath, mid-tear,  
the waves of your music—  
anything but this sharp silence  
whistling in my ears.  

You, siren, were different—  
your voice will never fade.  
You will echo through the cosmos,  
off the concrete basement walls,  
forever writ on digital and analog.  
Your music will outlast us all.  
You make me feel so very small  
standing here  
looking up at… it all.  

Was your song real, my love?  
Or just a dream?  
My memories are fading now,  
rolling waves lap on the shore,  
and here I am again,  
alone, unsure—  
Will I love again?  
No, not ever,  
not without you now.  
No, never,  
no more.
2025
Written by
Casey Hayward  36/United States
(36/United States)   
58
 
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