Not all stories wait to be told—some write themselves through us.

I wonder—
do we write in our sleep,
not with hands
but with something older—
a pulse beneath the thought,
a breath beneath the breath?

Are the things we write
just the dreams we couldn’t hold—
wet leaves stuck to waking,
falling off before we knew
they’d landed?

Maybe the page is the mirror
we forget we’re looking into,
and every line is a smoke-trail
from a fire that burned
somewhere behind the eyes.

The words come limping,
feathered with ash,
draped in symbols
we pretend to understand.

A girl with no face
builds houses out of teeth.
A clock whispers
the name you forgot.
You write it down
and call it metaphor.

But the ink knows first.
It hums with the echo
of other lives—
the ones you’ve never lived
but somehow still remember
when the light is wrong
and the silence bends.

Is this how we dream?
Not to escape—
but to return,
to write the path backwards
until the paper runs out
and we wake.