Sometimes, they come at dusk— ephemeral strokes of longing. Passing moments, woven like gossamer threads, drifting through fingers that, for reminiscence, become ghosts themselves. What was it like to clench a hand or hold a weight object in familiarity, as comfort peripherals of our written selves breathe their last in the spaces they leave unchecked?
We stand on the cusp of rebirth in shadows, with echoes forging identities. Mark the coordinates by which your entity floats. But do they belong to you?
Visioned tongues taste a color richer than meaning, yet paler in remembrance. As thoughts taper off into nothing, hear the racket of unsculptured impulse eating endless horizons.
Breath cycles between your syntax— a forgotten promise now stretches itself skyward in whispers, cutting open the seams of that earthly friction: never dissipating, always reticent, eternally ours, eternally whispering...