I don't do drugs, I am drugs.

Whispers in the In-Between

I drift where time forgets to turn,

A breathless hush where candles burn

But they never fade to ash or light—

A dusk that clings to an eternal night.

No door will creak, no bell will chime,

I haunt the hush between the lines

Of death and what comes after grace,

A shadow searching for its place.

The walls remember every cry—

Their plastered with wails, my lullaby

The lives I brushed but never held,

Of silence ringing, never quelled.

I wear no flesh, but still I feel

A cold that dreams can never heal.

Each stride I take is not a step—

Just memory in secrets kept.

The moon comes close but I cannot see,

The sun ignores the ghost of me.

I scream into a hollow void

That echoes back what I avoid.

Regret is stitched into my bones—

Though bones I lack, I feel their stones.

They weigh down the mist that makes my form,

A storm that lost its will to mourn.

A name I had, but it decays,

The memory washed out in these endless days.

I reach for faces blurred and gone,

For places dimmed by too much dawn.

Stuck here, not there—I am the seam

That binds the waking to the dream.

No heaven’s gate, no devil’s throne,