Sometimes, when the rain barely grazes the rooftops,
I find myself wishing for forgotten letters,
slipping through cracked windows to unfurl secrets
that whisper of distant shores.
Whispering Echoes
The scent of old books mingling with spring's first blooms
evokes a world where time dances
on brittle pages, yet here we are,
tethered to the mundane.
Dance of the Ephemeral
At dusk, shadows elongate tales untold
of nighttime escapades in moonlit meadows,
yet we choose sunlight,
staying anchored to fleeting realities.
Shadow Play at Sunset