Shadows swim languidly across tile-cold ground, their figures escaping words spoken from tired lips. Seven dead lilies gather dust in a cracked vase—as quiet as whispers in the room where silence resides. Conversations dampened through frames—each one trailing like the tendrils of smoke from a long extinguished fire. Would they still speak if the walls could respond?
Each echo of laughter folding into itself, wrapping tighter like the back roads we never take, churned in the ordinariness of life. A black pen has perched too long on rusting pages, ink dried like unfathomed tears. And once, in a rainy season, we danced without steps, drifting from one line to the next—toward a destination we dared not seek.
Could a labyrinth kill realities born in breadcrumbs of old conversations? The dust engulfs time and space. Today, nothing will have cooled since yesterday, nor will tomorrow sear with sensations stolen.