In the hush between stars, I call your name,
a whisper folded in the wings of sleep.
The sky turns soft
and beneath a moon that never sleeps, I wander.
Each step recalls a vow.
I reach through clouds of half-forgotten light,
through rooms of dream where laughter used to stay.
My voice dissolves, a moth against the night,
a fragile hope that will not fade away.
If love is real, it hides beyond the sound,
of whispers that bloom like ghosts.
I reach out, but feel the frost there,
where warmth and faith once grew.
The dream is dead.
Your ghost, perhaps, still hears me plead
in aisles where time decays,
where candlelight forgets to bleed,
and roses suffocate upon their thorns.
© Diana Mistera
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