The vast absence murmurs quietly,
a whisper of echoes in the forgotten dusk,
where echoes become the presence of wistful things,
and phantom limbs stretch into the depth
grasping not for touch, but for memory of touch.
What lies in the hollow of heartbeats,
when silence becomes the song we sing?
Notes dance like shadows cast by light unseen,
a melody of absence woven in stars' sighs
caught in the void's breath, brushing against time.
Theory speaks of nothing, yet speaks truly,
a paradox in its curt simplicity.
Visions of forgotten tomorrows
unfold like parchment worn by dreams,
tenderness in its decay.
Through the labyrinth of what never was,
wander the specters of moments lived
yet untouched by the tick of fate's hands,
reaching, just reaching, through the mist
woven by tender, broken promises.