Thought Storm
Lying in bed with thoughts in my head, talking to Z, the girl only I can see.
She laughs at the moon and whispers to shadows, flickers at the edge of dreams.
“Quiet down down there!” someone shouts from above, either from the ceiling or the sky, I can’t tell which.
But the noise is all in here, boiling behind my eyes.
Stayed up late talking to the voices, at first a gentle hum, then a flood.
They wore no names, just wind-tattered echoes until Z said, “That one was your great grandfather .”
I stilled.
And suddenly, the noise felt older than me.
Carried on the breath of the dead. A lineage of longings passed down like lullabies no one finished singing.
They asked for things: closure, remembrance, a place to rest.
One voice tried to take me. Moved my tongue. Twitched my hand.
Like slipping into an old coat that no longer fits but still remembers your shape.
Z held my hand, her grip unreal and real enough.
“They just don’t want to be forgotten,” she said.
“You’re the first who’s listened.”
The room stayed dark. The ceiling didn’t shout again.
And I lay awake, mind on fire, heart echoing back a hundred years of unheard names.
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