There were dreams that pulsed beneath her silence... not broken,
only buried in the folds of a time that never wanted to exist.
She did not forget them. She placed them... delicately, deliberately...
in the hush between two heartbeats, where no one would hear them scream for becoming.
Not because they were unworthy,
but because they were too beautiful to be touched
by a world that could not read the shimmer in her eyes.
She was not protecting herself. She was protecting them :
those delicate possibles, those not-yet-memories,
those soft-bloomed futures that smelled like wild jasmine,
and oceans that never reached a shore.
They were hers... but only in the way the moon belongs to the tide :
felt, longed for, but never truly held.
She knew if she spoke their names, they would fracture under the weight of translation.
So she whispered them only into the wind that came when no one was watching,
and let them vanish with a grace so precise it felt like vanishing was the dream itself.
And every now and then... between the folds of a sigh,
in the shadow of a mirror...
one of them would return.
Just for a moment.
Not to be remembered, but to be re-felt.
To press its soft light against her breath and remind her :
"You are not lost,
you are just scattered
among every miracle you still refuse to believe was ever yours."