Consider this: God once dreamed of a ladder made of eyelashes and climbed down into our ribs. He dreams there still, underneath our skin, where silence is imprisoned by breath. It’s unable to leave our lungs. Time drips backwards around him, like melted clocks. It clings to him. Never wanting to let go, it haunts him.

He never leaves—lingering in the soft machinery of becoming, staying through new beginnings unbruised by choice. Unbruised, yet every memory that remains has slight hues of purple and red.

Maybe He dreams of hands uncurled from fists, of words that can’t rot in the mouths of others—or even their minds. He wonders if skin remembers too much—if it could ever unlearn shame, peel off embarrassment like a fresh band-aid. It’s like an old light sheathed in dust.

Does He dream of us? Of who we are? Or who we’re supposed to be in His eyes? Are we supposed to be the perfection that’s the absence of ache? Or the presence of something worth aching for?

In His dreams, rivers run with ink as fish write psalms in cursive as they swim.

The moon forgets her name.

The sun weeps petals.

Nothing dies, only rearranges.

If nothing dies, then why do we carry so many ghsost? Feel so hollow?