The Dead Relative Who Visits You in Sleep
The One Who Visits You In Good Dreams
You wake with my name on your lips.
I sit at the edge of your bed, in the quiet corners of your childhood. I wear the scent of laundry and memory. I don’t speak much, but when I do, it’s in the pauses, in the hush between heartbeats. I bring no answers, only presence. I am not here to fix—only to be.
What I'm Into: the hush before morning, your sigh as you turn, a sweater that smells like home, the ache that fits like a second skin, dreams that hold you
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