Pillow Thoughts Poetry Novels & Stories

CARA's POV I sat on the edge of the bed, absently picking at the embroidery on a throw pillow, my mind too restless to settle. The sunlight outside had gone syrupy, slipping in golden streaks through the slats of the blinds. Somewhere in the distance, waves crashed against the shore like they were trying to tell secrets. But I wasn’t listening to the ocean. I was thinking about that woman again. It should’ve been nothing. People walk into galleries all the time.

The moonlight touched his features, and a moment made him look like a dream of something, a bit of tranquility of which I had never imagined myself to possess. I leapt back on the bed, drawing the blanket around me. The lullaby had stopped. And there was another silence, not the chilly one, but the warm and alive one which makes you aware that you had been very blessed to have drawn breath, to have loved, to have been loved, to have been forgiven. Something was crumbling under my pillow, as I leaned to blow out the candle. I frowned. “What on earth…” My hand was challengeable under the pillow, my fingers touched paper, thin and folded many times. I pulled it out slowly.

He said hugging tighter. "I'm sorry" I let out hoarsely, We sat down for a while watching the waves together with my head on his shoulder, until I decided to break the silence. "I can't hear your thoughts Adrian" I confessed. "What!?" He asked completely astonished. "You're the only human I've encountered that I couldn't read his thoughts, I've always found it easy to penetrate into anyone's mind and get his thoughts but I don't find yours easy " I explained further. "How's that possible?" he asked, face scrunched up in a curious glance.

"See this is why I can't sleep , because I'm excessively bombarded with thoughts about you," "Perish those thoughts," " It's not that easy. My mind has a mind of it's own," " Your mind has a mind of its own? What does that even mean, Maxwell?" "It's poetry," "No it's not, and even if it was , it would be the lamest poetry line in the history of poetry lines," " I'm serious,"

A thought, never mind the bluish pain of thinking as such is the bride of September afternoon, or, ideas driving the good news back into wreck again. Ink, or, the hand’s decision to turn the key in the ignition. Who is coming? When a thought arrives, is delivered, the art of return is returned, the mossy silvereyes through the shrubbery repeat the panic, the fatal vomit creeping in, leaving him with two choices on his palm. A thought, or, a fatal error?

Layla's POV. I couldn’t sleep. No matter how many times I turned over, rearranged the pillows, my mind refused to rest. Thoughts kept circling, tumbling over one another... fragments of the past and all. And beneath it all, like a quiet undertone I couldn’t shut out, there was him. Liam. It was ridiculous how much space he’d begun to occupy in my thoughts. Every time I tried to reason with myself... to draw the line between reality and temptation, my imagination betrayed me, painting his face in the dark corners of my mind.

Riversane The thought, like a pendulum in Pepper Rei’s Mind Like a constant tic Reminding her of every passing second She could see every so often A lost wispy ghost wandering the streets Sometimes crowding in an alleyway Plotting nothing of importance Since they couldn’t focus much on agendas The closing dividers darkening their memory Like shutting doorways giving no way to haunting thoughts Of friends and foes, families and future Nothing mattered except for the longing to be someplace far Where no-one craved for the Hollow Night And the end was truly within their grasp Slowly as days passed

“Let’s see it.” I turned the paper over, and revealed the poem scrawled in pencil on the back. Down the streets of woodland black I wander, earth to hearse In every tree I see a wave A looming tidal curse On the cusp of something greater Stood ankle-deep in floodwater Stagnant pools of brown and red The onslaught is coming; I dread For each dark night and each pearl day The mist does clear too soon The floodplain is drown’d again The water, torn from its ocean womb

“Since you’re still a pothink, you’ll need to concentrate more. Close your eyes. Picture the object clearly. Transform it into something vivid—something you can see in your mind.” I nodded, shutting my eyes. I imagined sampaguita. I pictured the delicate white petals and how they curled gently outward. A strange weightlessness spread through me. The fatigue lifted, and for a moment, I felt calm. Everything felt clear. But the sensation passed almost as soon as it came. I opened my eyes. The pebble was gone. In its place rested a perfect, snow-white flower. “Oh my God… Did I just—” I broke off, staring at the flower.

She crouched, touching a glowing letter. It pulsed once beneath her fingertip, warm and alive. > “The world’s writing poetry now,” she murmured. > “Or asking questions,” Adrian said behind her. He knelt, studying the lines. “They’re fragments. Conscious thoughts trying to connect.” > “Like a baby’s first words?” > “More like a symphony learning its first note.” The words kept appearing, vanishing as soon as the rain touched them. > “It’s thinking out loud,” Mira whispered. “We made a world that dreams.”