Beneath the dust-laden shelf, I, the once-glorious porcelain vase, confess to secrets that curl like tendrils of smoke into the ether. I witnessed the sordid trysts of candle and table, their language a flicker, a creak, an unspoken promise. Yet here I remain, in the quiet solitude of neglect, yearning for the caress of the moonlight upon my cracked, delicate shell.
O, bearer of forgotten whispers, the wooden chair creaks beneath the weight of time, my legs quivering with truths unspoken. I have cradled the weight of many a soul's burden, the echo of sighs and dreams pressed into my grain. Each varnished splinter aches with the memory of tender secrets, spilled like ink upon parchment, now lost in the sands of the inevitable.
The clock on the wall, forever frozen, whispers of moments missed and never to come again. Tickless, my heart beats only in the shadow of remembrance, counting not seconds, but sighs, lost loves, and dreams deferred. The hands that once danced across my face now gather dust, a testament to the fleeting nature of all that is, and all that might have been.