In childhood rooms, the air would hum with friends,
Drawn from the hush where daylight meets the dream.
Their voices, spun from dust and colored light,
Would march through hallways soft as woven time.
No rule could touch their kingdoms built of air,
Yet every heart would bow before their name.
I still remember each invented name,
A whispered spell to conjure phantom friends.
They rose from chalk and laughter’s scattered air,
Then slipped away beyond the border of dream,
Leaving behind the scent of sugared time,
And silhouettes that shimmered into light.
The attic glows with dust that catches light—
Each mote a spark, a half-remembered name.
I feel them pacing through the folds of time,
Still loyal in their silence, ghostly friends.
They wait between the waking and the dream,
Still breathing softly in the evening air.
I wonder if they miss the mortal air,
Or if they’ve found new homes beyond our light.
Perhaps they visit children as they dream,
And whisper to them my forgotten name—
A chain unbroken, passed from child to friend,
Each memory reborn, remade through time.
The clock keeps speaking of unyielding time,
Its ticking hands divide the slanted air.
But in my sleep, I sometimes find those friends,
Still blazing bright in corridors of light.
They laugh and call me by my childhood name,
And lead me dancing down the path of dream.
Then morning tears apart the tender dream,
And sunlight steals what’s left of borrowed time.
I wake, and whisper once more each old name,
Feeling them tremble faintly in the air—
The soft return of long-departed light,
The hush that follows when you lose your friends.
So if your friends should vanish with the light,
Remember: time may fade but not the air
That keeps each name alive inside a dream.