The Neverending Dream.

I woke in the hush between heartbeats,
where the night still wears the scent of stars,
and the world is softer than memory.

There, your voice—
not speaking, but humming,
low as riverlight and whispers on my skin.

I walked through a field of unpicked moments,
barefoot in the ache of what never was,
and still, it felt like coming home.

“I survived the fire but kept the flame.”

That’s the line they’ll carve in ink—
not because it’s brave,
but because it’s true.

We are not just dreamers.
We are the dream—
unfinished,
unafraid,
unfolding.

And morning will find us again,
as it always does,
laughing
like we never broke.