
Somewhere between here and there,
the ground dissolves under my feet.
Steps ripple outward,
never touching land.
Curtains of curling mist unfurl,
opening into corridors
that bend back into themselves.
Every door on which I press
is only another parted veil.
Your voice threads the air
like music half-remembered-
a melody unraveling
the closer I lean to hear.
Glass moths circle dim light,
wings catching, vanishing,
as though they were never real.
I follow the drumming of their wings,
but they lead me deeper
into the land of dreams.
Somewhere between here and there,
the sky drips silver,
stars melting into pools
that vanish when I kneel to drink.
Shadows move without bodies,
gestures repeating
a dance I almost recognize.
I reach to join them,
but my arms close on smoke.
In the distance-
a stairwell carved of moonlight,
ascending into nothing.
Each step I climb
undoes the step beneath.
And still,
your absence waits ahead of me,
a locked room
in the loftiest tower.
Somewhere between here and there,
I carry you carefully in fragments:
a masked face, obscured,
a touch that falls through water walls,
a silence that screams
louder than any word.
About the Creator
S. E. Linn
S. E. Linn is an award-winning, Canadian author whose works span creative fiction, non fiction, travel guides, children's literature, adult colouring books, and cookbooks โ each infused with humor, heart, and real-world wisdom.



Comments (1)
The image drew me in and your words kept me here