Heartdrift

"Not to escape, but to find you. In whatever dream has been saving a place for me."

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Please let me go to sleep so I can dream of you again.

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Tonight my body is an instrument
tuned by trembling hands.
My heart performs it’s unruly percussion again,
a stuttering rhythm
spilling over itself like a dancer who forgot the step
but keeps moving anyway,
out of instinct, out of need,
out of the sheer stubbornness of wanting to continue.

Lying here, content with exhaustion,
I give it new names.
The yearning pulse,
the homesick thrum,
the soft tremor of a soul
reaching farther than the body can comfortably stretch.

My chest aches as if something inside me
is trying to bloom too quickly.
Petals pressing against bone,
colour gathering beneath my ribs
like a secret sunrise
I’m not strong enough to hold.

Every inhale feels like a bird
testing it’s wings in a cage too narrow,
and every exhale is the quiet apology
my body gives back to the night.
But through it all,
you hover at the edge of my thoughts
like a gentle gravity,
pulling me toward the idea of comfort
in a world that feels too loud.

It’s strange how biology becomes poetry
when one is tired enough.
How the heart’s misfires
are suddenly metaphors,
little Morse-code flickers traveling along nerves,
tiny telegrams made of electricity,
each one spelling.
Stay awake, stay alive, stay wanting.

I clutch the blankets like a shoreline
clutching its waves,
holding on even as they pull away.
My fingers ache to trace your silhouette
in the dark,
to draw you into the empty space beside me
as if the act alone could steady my pulse.

The room tilts with sleeplessness.
Shadows stretch and gather,
soft as spilled ink.
And I feel myself drifting between worlds,
not dreaming, not waking,
just hovering
the way a moth circles a warm window,
desperate to reach whatever glow
you left behind.

If I could sleep,
I would wrap myself into a dream
stitched from the sound of your voice.
I’d walk through that dream
barefoot and unhurried,
letting the ground bloom with each step
the way thoughts bloom
when they are allowed
to think only of you.

But until sleep claims me,
I lie here listening to my heart
compose its trembling love letter,
irregular, aching,
faithful in its crooked devotion.
A rhythm that hurts
but hurts with meaning,
as though every sharp little flutter
is simply longing
trying to take physical form.

And though my body falters,
my longing does not.
Even through the feverish haze of exhaustion,
even as breath trembles
and muscles plead for rest,
my soul stays wide awake,
bright-eyed in the dark,
waiting for the moment
where I can finally drift under
not to escape,
but to find you.
In whatever dream
has been saving a place for me.

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