In the quiet tide of morning light, she sang the verses unwritten, melodies reaching beyond the lips of dawn. Each note was a hue, painted joylessly into the canvas of absence, blending harmonies with the sighs of yesterday's dreams. These were songs made of fragments, each a reflection of the heart's gentle procrastination.
Outside, the world whispered secrets, leaves dancing to the rhythm only understood by the stars. And with each flutter, she pondered—did the world ever lie? Were these echoes reality's sweet promises, or merely its restless sighs in the hands of time? The answer, elusive as a shadow in a forgotten summer, remained forever in the grasp of unanswered silences.
She often doodled in the margins of her thoughts—curlicues, spirals, half-written sonnets tamed by the line of reality, waiting for the courage to leap. And therein lay the beauty: it wasn't the completed verse she cherished, but the unfinished story, a love letter to the unforeseen, which waltzed with oblivion.
And thus, the unheard lyrics twinkled, stars in the dusk of her hazel eyes—a universe waiting for creation, breathing with the intensity of every unspoken word. To have such clarity in the unheard, was both a gift and a curse. But with a smile, she welcomed the eternal silence of unformed thoughts and unfinished songs.