In the half-light,

where sleep teeters on the edge,

it waits—

a ripple in the dark,

like the last breath of a whispered dream.

You feel it, don’t you?

That flicker at the corner of your mind,

a shiver that runs down your spine,

cool fingers tracing the outline of dreams

you haven’t quite left behind.

It doesn’t roar,

no claws to rend or tear,

but it feeds, oh yes—

it feeds on the threads of your sleep,

weaving your thoughts into something you won’t remember.

You’ve heard the stories,

shared in dim-lit bars over too-expensive drinks,

a flicker of fear beneath the laughter—

but you can’t shake the feeling

that maybe, just maybe,

there’s something lurking in the in-between.

It doesn’t steal your dreams—

no, it waits,

patient as a spider in its web,

for you to let go of what you hold dear,

for you to doubt, to wonder,

until you unravel them yourself.

And in that moment,

between the tick of the clock

and the hum of the city outside,

it slips in, silent,

a shadow curling around your heart,

a whisper lingering in your ear.

No marks,

no scars,

just emptiness where dreams once bloomed,

a hollow that echoes in the quiet of the night.

You’ll wake,

brush off the night,

step into the day with a smile,

but somewhere deep,

in the place where dreams should be,

there’s a void,

a space that hums with the absence

of what you no longer remember.

And so it goes,

night after night,

in the spaces between sleep and wake,

it comes,

feeding on the dreams you forget,

the hopes you leave behind.

You tell yourself it’s nothing,

just the mind playing tricks,

but every night,

in the stillness before sleep,

you wonder—

what if it’s real?

What if it’s waiting,

just out of sight,

to feast on the dreams you dare not hold?

In Portland, the nights are long,

the dreams elusive,

and the beast—

it’s always hungry,

always waiting

for the next dream to fade.