Shadows of dreams, the echo of time folding like origami paper lost to the wind.
Remember when the yellow light turned orange at the bus stop?
Silent conversations with empty seats.
Textures of Silence
whispers, voices beneath layers of white noise. The taste of memory slips like fine sand.
Broken clocks with no ticks,
yet their dials dance in our minds at synchronized intervals.
Do you hear the ticking of unspoken words?
Invisible concepts, they etch shadows on the retina of the mind, a slow waltz with ghosts past.
The ache of what could have been.
Fragments of afternoons spent tracing patterns in dusty light,
where the sun spills through leaves like fragmented promises.
Would you call them visions or merely dust filled with longing for the skies?