The clock strikes opaque whispers of forgotten hours,
a chime lost in the velvet folds of night.
Tick.
Echo.
And all I sought, I found again—yet differently; a scar over an old wound.
In the spacetime corridors of my mind,
footsteps eerie, repeating a rhythm.
A song familiar but without memory,
like the shadows of yesterday dancing.
The clock strikes, again and again,
but always, I return here,
to the place where silence and thoughts tango,
and wonder becomes a ghost,
here once more, as if it never left.
In another moment, you may go there,
or contemplate this in the space between seconds.