In a world painted with shadows of vivid pasts, I stand as a specter tracing the outlines of forgotten touch. Once, I had an arm that stretched towards the sun, feeling the warmth on unseen fingertips.
The air hums with ghostly whispers of an endless summer's day, where laughter echoed off invisible walls. I recall the scent of lilacs that danced on the horizon, elusive as morning mist.
Sometimes, in the solitude of these sentient shades, I hear the faint tune of an unplayed melody—a song composed by dreams, now scattered like leaves in the autumn wind.
Touch me not, for I am not here in this life you know. Instead, follow the sound of these silent words to wandering shadows or the tapestry of threnody.
Each glance into the void reveals more of what was never seen: the phantom scent of rain on dry soil, the distant rumble of thunder that never came.
The echo lingers, waiting to be caught and held in this moment, where each breath is a sigh of forgotten lives.