Can two sleepers
murmur secrets
across the void?

Can minds untethered
drift like twin moons
and meet
in the hush between breaths?

Do whispers in the dark
leap brain to brain,
a signal flickering
across the black river of night?

We imagine it:
souls brushing past each other,
lanterns caught on unseen currents,
your laughter spilling
into the hollow of my dream,
my fear trembling
in the glass of yours.

But science speaks—
a voice
like steel on stone:

"There is no magic here."

"Your skull is a cage.
Your brain, a fragile lantern
whose light dies at the bone."

"Neurons spark, yes—
but sparks cannot leap the void.
They flash and fade inside their jar.
They do not sing across the air."

"Sleep talking?
Static.
A tongue trapped
in restless circuits.
Noise, not message.
Coincidence, not connection."

"Two bodies may share heat,
share breath,
share even the rhythm of hearts—
but not memories.
Not thoughts.
Not dreams."

"Your storms are yours alone.
Private.
Chaotic.
Silent."

And we nod.

Because certainty is comforting.
Because mystery unsettles.
Because it is easier to trust
the walls we see
than bridges we cannot.

Case closed.
Simple.
Clear.

But pause—

Didn’t we once swear
the earth stood still?

Didn’t we mock the thought
of iron birds
splitting clouds?

And now—
we hold fire in our hands.

We summon voices
from glass rectangles.

We send faces across oceans
in the time it takes to blink.

Try explaining a smartphone
to a farmer in 1825—
they’d call you mad.

Try explaining the internet
to a poet in 1750—
they’d call you a god.

So maybe the arrogance
is not in believing too much,
but in believing
this fragile map of what we know
is all there is.

Perhaps the silence between us
is not silence at all.

Perhaps it is a language
we have not yet learned,
a frequency we have not yet tuned,
a hum our hearts already hear.

We’ve wired the world.
We’ve taught glass to speak.

And you think these living supercomputers of flesh
could not whisper
across the dark?

The universe has always been bigger
than our imagination.

It is not naive to wonder.
It is naive to stop.