The Room Where Dreams Go Quiet

The Room Where Dreams Go Quiet

There’s a room where dreams go quiet.

You can hear the hush before they sleep.

The floorboards creak like tired thoughts,

and the air smells faintly of endings.

I used to visit it often.

Sit cross-legged beside what I’d hoped for,

and listen to its small breathing fade.

Sometimes I’d stay until morning,

watching light make ghosts of the walls.

Not every dream dies with noise.

Some simply stop moving.

They fold into stillness,

content to have been almost real.

When I leave, I never close the door.

I like to think they wander out sometimes,

half asleep, half remembered,

still reaching for the world.