It’s Still Light
I tell you the dream where, beneath a canopy, I held a vigil. The morning air was crystal. If I had known dew to be precious, I would have brought a silver brush. You tell me a memory where you held your breath on the library stair. Bend your head over another book. Golden stone in shadow.
The candlestick still lit. I tell you the dream where trees bound my territory. If light adorned those leaves, we’d have called it grace. You tell me a memory where the pendulum swung, yet the bell tower never sounded. Slips mark your place. The woods are soaked with rain scent.
The tread is an echo. High above, a dome. You are still in the story. I tell you the dream where dimmed stars reach me through the atmosphere. You tell me a memory where blue windows met you at morning. If we woke now, we would find ourselves still dreaming.
When darkness gathers, we will find shine in the shadow. Delight is darkened dreams. You tell me a memory where ice blocked the windows. The sound of only pages. I tell you the dream where twinned voices fill the woods. I let you watch as I fall in love.
Overleaf, the invention of architecture. If water makes our atmosphere, woods make a bed. I tell you the dream where hawthorn and rose compete in the gazebo. This room is a bower. Each foot on a tread. You tell me a memory.
You tell me a midwinter memory, frost furred, gold. We meet, bookstack and bee glade. Hushed whispers on the spiral stair. If I share my dreams, does it make a kind of grace? Cheerful birds are atonal. I tell you the dream where the vigil ends at dawn.
I tell you the dream where you tell me a memory. The first room is an archway where I help you fall in love. If we woke now: only unread pages.
I tell you the dream where, beneath a canopy, I held a vigil. The morning air was crystal. If I had known dew to be precious, I would have brought a silver brush. You tell me a memory where you held your breath on the library stair. Bend your head over another book. Golden stone in shadow.
The candlestick still lit. I tell you the dream where trees bound my territory. If light adorned those leaves, we’d have called it grace. You tell me a memory where the pendulum swung, yet the bell tower never sounded. Slips mark your place. The woods are soaked with rain scent.
The tread is an echo. High above, a dome. You are still in the story. I tell you the dream where dimmed stars reach me through the atmosphere. You tell me a memory where blue windows met you at morning. If we woke now, we would find ourselves still dreaming.
When darkness gathers, we will find shine in the shadow. Delight is darkened dreams. You tell me a memory where ice blocked the windows. The sound of only pages. I tell you the dream where twinned voices fill the woods. I let you watch as I fall in love.
Overleaf, the invention of architecture. If water makes our atmosphere, woods make a bed. I tell you the dream where hawthorn and rose compete in the gazebo. This room is a bower. Each foot on a tread. You tell me a memory.
You tell me a midwinter memory, frost furred, gold. We meet, bookstack and bee glade. Hushed whispers on the spiral stair. If I share my dreams, does it make a kind of grace? Cheerful birds are atonal. I tell you the dream where the vigil ends at dawn.
I tell you the dream where you tell me a memory. The first room is an archway where I help you fall in love. If we woke now: only unread pages.