Sleepyhead

The night folds itself into glassy fragments,
and I wander through them like a sleepwalker—
barefoot, unsteady,
chasing the echo of a song I half-remember.

Your outline trembles in the corner of my vision,
made of nothing but light and air,
as if you were born from the static of an old radio
that never quite finds the right frequency.

The world blurs into pulses—
a low thrum in my chest,
a bright stutter of stars outside the window,
a ripple of laughter that drips like honey through the air.

I think if I reached for you,
my hand would pass through,
like smoke, like river mist,
like all the dreams that vanish
the moment I try to hold them too tightly.

But still—
your name burns soft behind my eyelids,
a firework that doesn’t fade,
and I keep stumbling back into the rhythm of it.

Somewhere between waking and sleeping,
I taste the colors of your silence:
a little violet, a little gold,
something that hums like electricity
and dissolves sweet on my tongue.

I want to stay here,
in this half-light,
this tender confusion—
where the floor is unsteady,
the ceiling is infinite,
and every heartbeat feels like it belongs to both of us.

by Onnaya