# Sweet Illusions I don't know why the heart holds on to shadows cast by dying light, why it spins its golden tales from the dust of forgotten things. Perhaps it's kinder this way— to dress the wound in silk, to call the scar a story, to make the empty room a palace of echoes. We are all magicians here, pulling rabbits from our sleeves that were never really there, convincing ourselves that the stage is wider than it is, that the applause is real. And maybe that's enough. Maybe the sweet lie is the only truth we need, the only mirror that doesn't show us how small we've become. So let the illusion hold. Let it shimmer in the corner of the eye. Let it whisper that we were loved, that we were enough, that somewhere in the dark someone remembers our name. The heart asks for so little— just permission to believe in the beautiful nothing, the gentle, glowing nothing that feels, for a moment, like everything.

So far, far, far away now,
Where there's no joy or bird,
Where desire is withering,
Someone is waiting so far, far, far away.

It was called love, long ago,
In spring, in night, in fairy tale,
Yesterday it was suffering, shame, beloved,
Today it's memory, tomorrow dust upon my grave.

Why did you have to hide, why couldn't you speak,
That one day, there would be no tomorrow?
I never asked you to explain your gift to me.
What never was cannot wound.

I don't know what it is,
but it's good to ache, achingly, achingly
for some words you've spoken,
like the twilight cloud that
glows, with stars burning beyond it.

I don't know what it is,
but it's sweet, the thought of you when it arrives,
like sunlight when it catches the roof,
even as night creeps into my room.

I don't know what it is,
but I feel that my life has bloomed again,
your words are tender-hearted,
like March wind passing over graves.

I don't know what it is, but it's good, it's vast,
It hurts, dear, let it hurt—I will let it.
If it's folly, if it's a mistake, let it be,
If it's love, then forgive me for that.