How often we find meaning in the least expected of places⋅between → the cobblestones that click beneath well-worn soles during that late autumn stroll. Words linger soft, barely spoken, neither needed nor desired, but they hang like stars⋆waitinglie beyond the hour.
Memory is nothing but a curtain shimmering, hiding moments unfound, shared not in sight, slipped through sighs erased by indifference. It's thick like September dusk, elusive.
I recall hands almost clasping, echoing amidst park silhouettes whispers piled in unkempt leaves. Papier-mâché dreamswe react to for cyan skies fragile in memory's repose.
Follow what you cannot comprehend
Echo beyond presence