“Is the fish truly swimming if it is out of water?” she muses, the clock’s hands spinning backwards.
“We never met, you say, somewhere between the lines and the colors ceased to matter.” A dog barks far away, as unsuspecting shadows dance.
“She left the breadcrumbs on a Tuesday, forgotten under the slice of sky that tastes like echoes.” A whisper winds through the air.
“The door was ajar; glassy eyes wear responsibility as a cape.” Hummingbirds, a thrill in colors too vibrant for concepts.
Once forlorn sounds spiral from within, embodying anomalies deliring after text in a discarded language dripping saturation, burning numbers.
If shadows rustle and the wind weaves disparate thoughts, can angels secrete divine messages in code?