The touch of a forgotten breeze
echoes across the bramble
of constellations
dancing upon an unstrung harp.
Fingers stretching into twilight,
the gardener's hands know not where
the fence ends and the sky begins,
do you remember the way
your shadow fell
on the other side
of the rabbit hole?
Sometimes, the dream replays itself—
a movie lost in time, stuck in a loop,
where the credits roll over
the same scene played in reverse.
There’s a voice that whispers
from the distance, closer than it seems,
asking... or perhaps remembering...
or maybe it’s not asking at all.