“But what of the color blue?” she asks, her breath crystallizing in the silence of frostbitten winds. “Do you ever wonder if we could hear glaciers whisper secrets?”
“The ice is not empty,” he replies, “it hums a forgotten tune, each crack a line of poetry akin to somnambulant artistry.”
Ethereal laughter dances around like perhaps a memory caught in dusk—“Remember the game of shadows, when everything felt like it might just fracture into light?”
“But echoes are usually lost,” she sighs, “as they fade into a tapestry of night, entwining with sighs of past lovers beneath fading moons.”
An uneasy chill descends, talons gripping the dwindled flame: “Is there solace in stillness? Or merely the echo of other lives yearning to breathe?”
“Click… and yet, watches endlessly spin, do they not? Perhaps yesterday still clutches at the iceberg still dreaming.”