Catch-you-not, Forget-you-never

Sway upon a cloud, my tenderhearted dream.
Will wisps of thread separate into the wind's melody,

no longer seizing his shape?

Fade to a muted slumber, never to evanesce beyond the outer limit.

Oh how the air is love, and yes, the heavens are pure truth.

She hangs upon nimbostratus quietude, overlooking sleet and storm,

broken web within, a loose echo of what once wove firmly.

"My frame is weak," she murmurs timidly,

"I can only exist, and that is all.

Your fantasies are too big for me to keep."

I press my palm to her fragility,

and feel entangled threads like veins beneath the skin.

“You were never meant to carry the weight of my ache,”

I whisper, “only to cradle it while I learned to breathe,

sweet catcher of dreams.”

I caress her humble face, though at times I want to look away.

I did not know that my longing would become a tempest,

that hope would spool so tightly it might tear the net meant to hold it.

But even now, in your arabesque shambles and dewdrops,

you are a testament—

to what it means to try, and try again.

So sleep with stillness and the loosening of his name.

You caught enough hope to sustain my breath,

and cocoon me in a supple lacework bed.

Be safe beneath the hush of blue and memory.

You may fray, and release him in a soft sigh of mourning,

that sings light and patience into the night.