She thanked the pigeon for its feathery embrace, as if it bore wisdom older than the cobbles awakening at dawn.
"Remember the starlit numbers?" he asked, oblivious to the dripping silence that strolled in like a forgotten ghost.
A low rumble echoed, speak to the grounded ’what ifs’ of asphalt rivers streaming beneath our feet.
Promises woven in gossamer threads float – fragile, yet weighty in a dream we shared.
"The poker tables of children weave cradles from echoes,” she whispered with eyes reflecting distant moons.
Cardboard cities we built on summer nights crackle like flames extinguished by the moon.
A word, brittle as frost, shattered beneath our questioning tones and gathered as confetti in the winds.