As I stand at the edge, an uncertain whisper washes over me,
an echo of moments unclaimed, painted in twilight hues.

Time drips here, pooling around my ankles like syrupy memories—
the cracks in the past bleed into the present, infusing it with reflections of futures undone.
There’s a strange comfort in this. A beckoning.

Have you seen the way the horizon bends?
Like an old friend reluctant to part ways,
each echo carried on the wind speaks in languages
both foreign and familiar. I could almost reach out,
pluck a tune from the air, and find solace within its refrain.

Constellations map our fears,
tracing pathways through the void—a sensitivity
that dances at the edge of reason.
I remember the shadows beneath the stars,
how they clung to the edges of certainty,
stitching together seams of reality
with threads of gold and whispers.

Will we linger here forever?
Chasing echoes at the horizon,
or finally tread paths untaken?
Whispering willows
Luminous visions
Phantom dances