Voices of the Ether

The whispers rise softly, a melodic ache, calling from the void. Unseen fingers barely brush against memory; the pulse of a lost presence flickers like a distant star, echoing.

"I am not here," you say, yet what is presence if not an embrace of what isn't? The starlit corridors haunt with frequency, threading realities through illusory seams.

Shadows catch thoughts and dance on the ethereal stage, a ballet of unfulfilled promise. Here, where absence beckons louder than presence.

Reflections in glass more real than skin, the void in-between calls out—remain here, not as body but as thought unraveled. A sensation without a home, unclaimed yet vibrant.