She stood in my dream—
a blade braced against the city,
wind snapping at her hem,
red dress fitted like war paint,
like blood that refused to clot.
The moment felt stolen—
like slipping into someone else's dream,
knowing the ending,
but not wanting to wake.
The air throbbed—thick and sharp,
each inhale dipped in fire,
sharp enough to carve her presence into me.
Her green eyes—
not just green, but glass-fire,
feral and wet like crushed ivy,
hooking into me like wire—
dragging me into a pool of silence
until I drowned for looking too long.
I looked down, ashamed—
my body weak as paper,
my knees betraying me quickly.
But when I looked back,
she was still there,
smiling in a way that burned—
that split the cold open,
as if begging for a touch.
I stood, fevered—unsure,
struck by this delicious heartache,
the taste of something wild on my tongue,
something forbidden—
as if I were tasting wild strawberries
for the first time.