Nostalgia whispers on the fading edge,
A world, a labyrinth, forged in the unwound.
Your touch, once skin stretching,
Now, an echo chasing the silent melody
Of an entity unseen, yet profoundly held.
The spaces between are vast, yet they cling,
Fingers trace the outlines, uncharted,
And in the quiet reverberation,
A sway of the past lingers still.
Hover, clench, release—
Not marked by a footfall,
The ghost-paths linger, intertwine;
Constructs of the mind’s slowly eroding
Fabric, where every memory stitches itself
To the seams of air no longer tropic.