When dreams wait

Every night I sing to myself lullaby's and every night they fade ever so slightly into the setting sun.  I conduct, with my hands, a melodic trumpet that rings in my mind as the orchestra pauses for dramatic effect; the one brass siren wails high above the rest to draw close the hearts of lonely souls. 

My fingers, now just shy of touching, attract and repel like magnets.  I feel the static between them jump the gap, the charge that demonstrates my own animation. My livelihood trapped in the gentle arcs of my fingerprints. The slightest graze of any textured item leaves a lingered tingle on my skin.  Life has a way of lingering; sounds ringing in your ears, matters of the heart that should have been lost long ago or an icy breeze that leaves your cheeks burning for longer than you'd like.  

Every night when life itself stands still, my thoughts travel the paths through mountains made of lingered sensation, underneath the moon's supervision.  Stars enchant my imagination and pursue  my soul until heavy eyes, in time, find rest.