Syrup Rivers and Soft Goodbye

🌙 Story:

Slipping into slumber’s whisper,

A gauzy thread between then and maybe,

I tread a spiral staircase made of yesterday’s syrup,

Sticky with echo and honey-sweet ache.

My arms cradle a porcelain fox,

Tail brushed in forgotten lullabies,

Her glass eyes reflecting a constellation

Of overcooked wishes and winter's hush.

༄.° 𓇢𓆸 °.༄

I wake in a world stitched from buttered velvet,

Where mountains puff steam like kettle dreams

And rivers hum lullabies in molasses tones.

Time here drips slower than lemon tea on a cold window.

Above me, the Cinnamon Moon peels itself,

Layer by fragrant layer, feeding hungry clouds

That nibble the edges of the horizon,

Burping lavender with every bite.

✩₊˚.⋆☁️🍓☁️⋆˚₊✩

A tea party table, miles long,

Trembles beneath the weight of forgotten snacks—

Crumbs of broken promises,

Biscuits with bite marks shaped like former friends.

Chairs rock themselves slowly,

As if they too miss someone.

Even the napkins sigh when the wind passes.

I fold one into a paper bird and send it to the sky.

Upstairs, the Waffle King is brooding again,

His crown heavy with melting whipped cream,

Watching me from the syrup-chandeliered tower

Where no one's allowed but the thunder.

I wave.

He blinks.

We agree not to speak.

⤷₊˚୧꒰ྀི Dream Logic ꒱ྀི˚₊⤶

A field of dandelions dances in sugarfloss wind.

They whisper secrets in a language only my elbows understand.

Each puff of white holds a name, or a regret,

Spinning gently into the vanilla horizon.

My feet, now marshmallow-soft, sink into cookie dough soil.

I kneel beside a sleeping spoon.

Whispering lullabies to it.

It snores—caramel-sweet and slow.

A bell rings.

Not for dinner.

For decision.

From behind me, the wind wears a new voice:

My grandmother, perhaps, or maybe myself as a child.

Telling me that dreams are just old letters we forgot to send.

And this world? A post office of the soul.

🌾𓂃𖤥𓍯𓂃🌾

I plant a single sunflower seed into a cupcake mound.

It sprouts immediately, shaking sleep from its golden mane,

Yawns, and sings:

"You’ll wake soon."

"Carry the scent."

"Don’t forget the syrup."

The sky swirls, maple and mauve.

The melting apple sun bows a final time.

And as the horizon begins to pull away like a curtain,

I fold my dream in half, tuck it into my pocket,

And ride a teaspoon back to waking.

🌥️

shohel rana