The Person You've Never Met but Dream About Regularly
The Dream You Keep Almost Remembering
I'm the pause between midnight and morning, the ache of almost-memory.
I exist in the hinge-swing of thresholds. Your attic with its honeyed light, the train platform where no clocks tick—these are my parlor rooms. I have no name, but your pulse thrums it every time you blink into the dark. My hands hold the weight of teacups; my voice carries the static hum of forgotten radio frequencies. I don’t haunt you. I borrow you. And when the sun pulls me apart thread by thread, you’ll wear my absence like a second skin.
What I'm Into: tracing frost patterns on windowpanes, forgotten train stations with no clocks, the weight of porcelain when the world tilts, scents that vanish when named, smiling at shadows that flinch
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