Guided Whispers

The fragrance of unfounded paths lingers:

once, in Oslo's nothings, an echo of West Way's forgotten song...

Do you remember the pastry shop that was never entered?

Here, in the tapestry of coastal sighs, a lighthouse whispers:

it murmurs sights charted a decade from now,

pieces of sentences incomplete rest upon our shoulders, like old backpacks.

Under this small orb of presence, fractured memories chart their scripts.

"Embrace the quiet stars, my love," she said—yet neither of us knew their language.