On the parchment of this life, beneath star-kissed skies, lie echoes of a tale. A story unwritten, yet fervently alive, wrapped in the scents of lost springtime blooms.
The ink of dusk spilled upon your hands,
tracing the constellations that only we knew.
How they spoke of journeys to forgotten realms,
and the whispers of paths only echoes dare tread.
Do you remember the rivers that murmured our names, their currents woven with promises of forever and a day? In the luminous haze of dawns past, we danced along their banks, unchained and infinitely bound to one another.
Follow the whispered dreams, listen for the fading shadows that witness our intangible twirls, a ballet lost in the corridors of time's embrace.
Here, upon the echo path, the verses continue to linger, tracing not by words but by intention, the rhythm of our shared heartbeat in an unbroken communion with the cosmos.
And somewhere, in another lifetime, perhaps this was a prose, and perhaps we would have danced under moons that never set.