((DREAM))

I woke up inside a version of myself

I don’t remember choosing.

Everything felt waterlogged—

The ceiling, my thoughts,

The place in my chest

Where feeling used to live

Without trembling.

I keep trying to stand still,

But the floor shifts

Like it’s tired of holding me up.

Maybe it is.

Maybe I am.

There’s a ringing in my head

That might be guilt,

Might be memory,

Might be the sound of every moment

I should’ve said something softer

And didn’t.

Some days I feel like a room

That’s been emptied too quickly—

Indentations on the carpet,

A nail left in the wall,

A single sock in the corner

No one claims.

Proof that someone lived here

And then decided not to.

I tell myself I’m fine—

That lonely isn’t fatal,

That silence won’t swallow me whole.

But the truth is

I’m afraid of the version of me

That shows up

When no one else does.

It’s strange, how the smallest thoughts

Can drag like anchors—

How the memory of your voice

Stretches out

Until it touches everything,

Even the parts of me

I thought were numb.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for.

A sign.

A pulse.

A reason to trust mornings again.

But for now I drift,

Half-asleep

Inside this soft collapse,

Hoping that if I stay still enough,

The world will stop shaking

And let me breathe

Without breaking.

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