Deeper than love adorned by pale moonshine, a casade of warmth. Somewhere in the recesses,
stars whisper in Morse code.
We sit merely as pieces of dust spiraled away from cosmic amber, speaking in the antiquated
languages we never learned but somehow understand.
Beneath fabricated screens of static, memories all but echoes, tender flickers consuming the
night. (A child's game, a lover's monologue., whispers in the digital antiquity.)
Forget not this erratic glow: remind yourself,
mirror yourself,
or resound elsewhere.