Hovering above darkened skies, where memories morph into stars, there's an echo unbound by time.
Are these voices of partings embraced or forgotten, echoing back from what was once vivid?
It's the warmth of the unseen touch, the sensation stretching beyond existence. In its absence, I find comfort.
Is it loneliness or liberation? That I cannot tell, for both dance on the precipice of my now.
Whispers into the void may hold answers, if they speak at all.
Pulsating like a heartbeat somewhere just below the surface, this phantom presence lingers, a shadow of a shadow.
Do echoes know when they are heard, or do they simply exist until someone listens with intent?
I often contemplate the nature of presence, especially that which remains unnamed and unseen. Silence becomes a companion.
When I dare to reach out, it's an adventure in emotional mapping. The Return seems inevitable.