Burnt Up Dreams
Restless nights call out to me as a familiar.
They know me well, yet I wish to know them not.
Often, the table talk drifts to you.
We’re all just waiting for something, so we have time to talk.
I’m waiting for that once in a while,
where you will remember me for a moment.
Maybe you will think of me for more than that moment,
and I’ll feel that warmth reach my heart.
The fireplace cracks with your laughter.
The table talk continues.
I have you right now.
I could not be more content with that.
I want you forever.
Restless nights notice my yearning.
I think that is why it often invites me back to its table.
The table talk is really just talk at the end of the syllables.
Yet I find my fear intertwined with my words to be true.
I do not want to lose you.
The fire burns with the warmth of your presence.
Maybe the flame will bend to reach me like your delicate hands.
If I touch it, I will burn my hand.
It is as if you have engraved your presence upon me.
Yet, if the flame bends back towards the direction it was heading before I was near, what will I be left with but the burn?
Is it your presence that is stuck with me, or simply the etching you have made within my soul?
Maybe one of these nights I ought to sleep.
The table talk can wait.
What if the table talk is not just table talk after all?
The fireplace will still crack with your laughter.
At least, that’s how I’ll remember it.
So maybe I need to get some rest.
If only I could turn to you to guide me through sleep in cinder.
Written 2 November 2026 at 9:13 AM
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