There once danced
in twilight
the silhouette of a longing,
slipping between
dewdrop-laden grass blades.
Whispers of faces
ever so familiar,
like moths to candle flame,
haunting the candle's
gentle flicker.
Here lies the old bench,
weathered and weary,
beneath the sprawling oak,
a ghostly imprint
of solitude's embrace.
Each breeze carries stories
of connections unmade,
of words left unspoken,
a gentle reminder
of echoes reverberating through time.