You came again last night,
not in messages, not in light,
but somewhere soft between my dreams,
where nothing's real, yet everything seems.
You didn't speak, you never do,
but silence always sounds like you.
The way you stood, the way you smiled,
was gentle, fleeting, undefiled.
The air was calm, the sky was gray,
you looked at me, then turned away.
No blame, no pain, no words to send,
just that quiet knowing: this must end.
I tried to reach, but time was thin,
the dream began to fold within.
And when i woke, the room was still,
but your ghost lingered, warm and chill.
It's strange, how peace can also sting,
how love can haunt like everything.
I never asked for you to stay,
but somehow, you still find a way.
To slip through hours, soft and slow,
to visit where the sleepers go.
Maybe it's not you, but the part of me
that still refuses to set you free.
Because every dawn, before it breaks,
the heart remembers what it aches.
And even if the sun has shone,
it never feels like you are gone.
So i whisper thanks into the dark,
for your shadow's trace, your fading spark.
For though the dream will always fade,
it's in those hours,
that you are made.