Member Poem

I dreamt of him beneath the silver moon,
his porcelain face cracked deep with golden light.
He looked at me with sorrow-laden eyes,
and I, entranced, returned his mournful gaze.

Between us stretched a silence, vast and cold,
yet in the hush, I knew he called to me.
He raised a fragile hand, so pale, so still.
I reached to meet him, fingertips outstretched.

But though we tried, we could not bridge the space,
our hands mere ghosts that trembled, yet ne’er touched.
I strained, yet every movement split my skin,
thin silver veins unfurling through my hands.

He mirrored me, his golden fractures spread,
the more we reached, the more we broke apart.
So close, so far, an agony of hope,
a love unformed yet burning in the dark.

A single tear escaped his hollow cheek,
a shimmering thread upon his shattered skin.
And so we stood, forever locked in place,
two silent statues yearning, bound by fate.

Waiting. Watching. Hoping. Praying.
Never touching. Never whole.

I woke, my heart still heavy with the loss.
Who was my porcelain man, my longing soul,
who I could see but never truly hold?