Some nights,
a dream leaves
its door open,
and I wake
with a light inside me
I cannot find
in the room.
Your voice is there—
caught in the grain
of the silence.
I lie still,
afraid the smallest movement
will scatter
what sleep
has left of you.
How strange,
to miss a moment
that never happened;
to carry its warmth
into a morning
that knows nothing
of the fire.
By noon,
I’ve forgotten
what you said.
But all day,
something in me
keeps turning
toward the sound.
— Noeticnonsense.