"Your eyes," she whispered through the haze of unseen twilight,
"mirror the candles that dared to illuminate... everything unsaid."
"In the library of night," he murmured, "each breathe scribed uncharted tales
conceived by the ink beyond ink, penning our secret histories."
The parchment held no secrets, yet inside each wrinkle lies continents
of vulnerable dreams untouched by paper, sketched by a lover's sigh.