Beneath the pavement, echoes of petals whisper, suspended in the amber of yesterday's rains. These threads of green, where roots clasp secrets of the earth, dreamdreamdream in inches per hour, where clocks bend become flowers become you hold this thought: what if they remember names of forgotten lovers? Telephone wires hum, imploring the stagnant dandelions, shapes shift, streets dissolve into vines, speaking in tones none recall but everyone know, knitted between bricks like the forgotten poets' sonnet.
Glassy memories rise like mist, seen only in peripheral glances, where shadows take shape, mold. Traces of sun inked on rooftops, now stories told by crows perched on wind's fingers. Perhaps tomorrow today will be different, but that truth remains suspended, like marionettes in amber. Do you feel it? The pitter-patter of unseen leaves falling, the gentle ticking of flora clocks?