some dream of warmth
some dream of flying

some spend mornings lying
balancing on the edge
between sleep and awake

half dreamt images
of dancing flames
closeness
heat warming their face

or lingering sensations
of falling
remembering soaring
through the sky


meeting someone
share the dream
such a rarity

find and be found
instead of searching
the reason we search

few words needed
when minds mere touch
feel like home

to know already
the smile in your voice
to words not said

the touch of your hand
in mine
without holding

few words needed
none allowed

to share a dream
is unspoken


there had been signs to indicate
you too hid matches in your coat

if one were to find them now
others not to be ignored
remember

tasting on your skin
a silent longing for
someone to share your skies


nothing now in your eyes
but squinting back to see

attempts at finding
wordless answers

some do not remember dreams
they have but half dreamt images
lingering sensations

if you had but asked
if only I had shared
I never wanted flying

I dream of fires

There’s nowhere for me,
nowhere I can scream—
quietly, peacefully.
I can’t disturb,
the gentle, quiet Night.

These tears know, too—
They only know one home,
stuck deep inside.
They drown in the ocean,
wondering when they will
fly from my eyes.

The time comes.
I shake, I tremble.
My soul goes ragged—
with grief, with joy,
with guilt, with love,
with anger, with hope.
It’s wretchedly beautiful.

I raise my chin.
I shake, I tremble.
But only a crack
forms in the dam.
Only a stream
seeps into my lap.

I unhinge my jaw.
I shake, I tremble.
I try to *****
the full blue moon.
But not a sound disturbs,
the gentle, quiet Night.

I can’t hear myself.
But it's screaming.
It claws, it hungers,
it wants out.
But I’m not ready.

My heart has grown
too attached to the weight,
of this dead child
hiding inside me.

Words have been left unspoken, like blank pages in a book.
I keep flipping through the pages, to take another look.
I find the words unwritten; they've never stained the page.
It's only you who can see them, only you know this silent rage.
The years that have been passing, fleeting swiftly by,
Our words left unspoken from our mouths, have been spoken through our eyes.
No one knows the magnitude the unspoken has been to bare.
It's crazy to believe there was another one out there who truly cared.
The unspoken words we've hidden deep inside our hearts,
This has made such an impact on me, as you've been the vital part.
In the silence of the unspoken, you still show that you care.
The brush of your hand, a smile, a gentle hug lets me know you're still there.
This unspoken that's always flowing, yet not heard or seen,
We both know the unspoken is there, but never speak of what it means.
In the quiet, our unspoken waits, never asking or never loud.
Our unspoken is strong and steady, even when the unspoken's not allowed.

It took you ten days to ruin my life,
In the most tragically beautiful way.
I regret nothing,
For you have shown me everything,
And yet, there’s still more to learn.
I see you everywhere, in everything—
All the little things bring me joy,
beauty, and love.

You are my muse.
All these things and more,
I want to share, with you,
But for now, I will have to show
your Ghost.

The first ten minutes of every twilight morning since,
I could almost convince myself,
you’re still here.
The pillows in the night
shift just so, and feel like
my head on your chest,
entwined—feet, legs, arms, hands, fingers—
until I reach out
and remember,
you’re a Ghost.

The last ten minutes of each dragging day
are the hardest.
Darkness is comforting;
for in the dark, your Ghost still looks back,
unyielding, vivid, carried forward,
with every breath
I take.

I’ll wait for ten thousand years,
but, hopefully,
it doesn’t take that long.

I struggle between the truth and peace
Balancing on this crystal beam—
So fragile, on the edge of breaking
As I try to make myself lighter
To keep it in place.

I keep it in place
And it keeps me in pieces.
I would shrivel to nothing
For this.
I would disappear—
Just say the word.

I’m sorry.
How many more times
Must I say it?

I’m sorry.
You never said that to me.

I know I’m the one in the wrong
But it hurts like white-hot tongs
And I cannot ever sing you this song
So I let go of the pain and move on.

A warped mirror perhaps?
My face always twisted,
always grimacing behind a dry beam.
Two Tylenols are never enough.

Ella.
A lump caught in my throat.  
Her scent walks by,
uninvited, yet welcomed.

A blurred outline,
a cutout blocking the light.
I yearn to sweat nightmares
out of my pores.

At night, her voice still fogs
the thick wall of silence—
muffled.
“Are you listening?”
Obscured echoes stir
down the pit of this endless night.

Tulips grow somewhere
on the side of the bed,
where it whirrs and beeps,
and reeks of alcohol.  
But the night is ever still,
unperturbed, as it sleeps in my arms.

Murmurs drift like dust motes,
caught in a sunbeam—

Ella.
I chase shadows of her laughter,
fading out against gushing white noise.  
Fingers twitch to speak,
for words are somehow
lost in static.

The walls hum a song,
croaking with hurt it sounds—
“Stay with me,” it pleads,
but my indifference swallows
the words.

In the spaces between breaths,
I linger suspended.
Ella might be digging me out.