The hints of a spent sun linger softly, whispers dancing, on the edge of every horizon, painting the night in purple folklore. Here, during our fortnight, the dusk pulls us in— a gentle tide against the sands of existential drift.
Beneath a blanket woven from star whispers, your silhouette cuts deeply into my waking dreams. Every glance shared, every touch across time, we script echoes upon echoes—undying, pulsating.
As the celestial choir begins its nocturnal hymn, I find solace among your resonant breaths. In this place apart, where echoes learn to sing, does the cosmos ever tire of such splendid stories?
Extend your hand into the cavernous dusk, where our voices turn to constellations— and lost loves remember their birth.