The Forest That Dreamed of Me

It started with whispers in the walls—

roots humming beneath concrete,

leaves brushing the edges of sleep.

Something ancient was calling,

and it remembered my name

better than I ever did.

_________**

When I finally stepped into its mouth,

the air tasted of rain and forgetting.

The trees bent toward me,

their shadows long as memory.

I thought I was alone

until the silence moved—

slow and breathing—

like a creature deciding

whether I was worth the trouble.

_________**

There are things you can’t chase.

They come only when you stop wanting them.

So I stood still,

and the forest rearranged itself around my pulse.

Branches knelt.

The ground sighed.

The sky blinked once—

and for a moment, I was its heartbeat.

_________**

I found bones made of light,

and a mirror carved into bark.

When I looked,

I didn’t see my reflection—

I saw the dream of me the forest kept.

Wild.

Unafraid.

Whole.

_________**

When I woke,

the walls of my room were breathing.

There was soil under my nails,

and a seed in my throat.

Now, every night,

I hear it whisper from the cracks:

“Come back.

You belong to what remembers you.”

***