Poems from my dreamscape
I’ve been living closer to dreams these days. They’ve grown sharper. Stranger, vivid, untamed. Over the last few months, I began writing them down, struck by the worlds my subconscious can create if I let it.
They are wisps of smoke, glimpses of something truer than logic allows.
Dreams speak in languages older than words: the door, the shark, the face I recognize without a name. They rise like tides and I watch them the way you watch clouds drift. A Rorschach of the mind that reveals nothing, and everything, all at once.
in case you forget
What is a life but a slow knowing.
Where the map ends, I begin.
The body is both the locked door and the key.
the dog came back different
I lost her, the part of me that ran ahead, black and brown, tied to the earth and air.
When she returned, her eyes were older. She could no longer be called. She could only be followed.
self-portrait
In the white room, I am the artist and the painting, the brushstroke, the hand, the unfinished sky.
beneath the house
It’s not the weight that breaks us. It’s the pretending we’re not carrying it.
Beneath the house, something breathes. I unbolt the door, not to slay it, but to say: I see you. I set you down.
