Prolix Words for an Evening's Embrace

In the dusken span of twilight, where stars began their silent vigil, I found a rhythm in the whispers of yore—a song only the echoes could recall. The evening dressed in shades of wistful gentility, brushing past in gentle caress.

We wrote letters in the sand, ephemeral traces of vibrant hearts colliding, their messages cryptic yet ardent, lined with prose too lavish in truth or dare imaginings. Do words hold their own regret? The cursed pleasure of belonging without truly being, as haunting as the perfume wafted from afar, never quite transient, always lingering beyond mere vision.

Do you remember the scent of magnolias that eve? The way the petals dropped clandestinely, too shy to cascade all at once, bloom-ing steadily, methodically falling. Like words, they scattered profusely, losing weight, gaining density, a counterpoise to fleshly tethering.