Ever the whisper of the moon-lit tide, a breath untaken yet shared, where hearts break only to form tapestries of mended starlight stitched on the edges of dreams. We lull in pockets filled with silence, swept by the rhythm of half-closed eyes and silent sonnets: The Lengths of Time.
Here lies the paradox: depths reach out, caressing softly the sand, though they awaken beside stillness, love alight and fluent. To kiss the void only pulls closer, strange leads strange, wraps warm blunt honesty entwined in Invisible Strings.
While the shore lies armoured, brimming shores beyond mollified horizons, forgotten whispers reclaim emptied chalices to overflow with presence. Our breaths pause, lovers in syzygy, cosmic and earthly, dancing a balletic liturgy along ephemeral Echoes.
Eternal spirals kiss memory, in motion's muted steeped echo as tides, yielding alloyed translucence, offering glimmers, whispering everything that might forever be lessened, both light and full within burden's elegant yield, halely joined by light, sibilance sings.