Palimpsests of Erased Histories

Beneath the lasagna of stone and fiber lies a fervent whisper. The edge of an unspoken sonnet rests delicately where time has allowed it. In ancient corners where crimson ink once flourished, the silent traces tease a love not forgotten but obscured. Repeated whispers in the dark, shadows tracing their long-forgotten paths.

Once, in the ether threads, we were cicadas and moonlight, shedding life's heavy silk under the vague warmth of wandering stars. Our dreams lay scattered like breadcrumbs upon pages no longer visible, each word an echo, each pause an embrace turned to memory's fragrance.

Have you ever seen such tenderness in the marrow of your bones? A hand not yours but familiar, adjusting the half-light to illuminate where the script survives, plaintive and sweet. Here lies names she spoke in sleep, veiled and potently melancholy .