In the deepest crevices of a forgotten drawer,
lay the unspoken words, penned in fading ink,
whispers of shadows kissing the light,
echoes caught between breaths and time.
A letter arrives with the scent of rain,
yellowing pages stitched by moonbeams.
You remember the touch of its embrace,
the unfulfilled promise it bore.
"All that is left are imaginations dancing,
in rooms painted with cinema ash."