The velvet whispers of lost dreams scatter across my room, their tender voices woven into the fabric of night. What remains of those forgotten words? I often muse, tracing the echoes that linger in the corners like petals long adrift upon the stream of sleep.
Fragmented Memory: A glimpse of her, dancing with the stars, her laughter brushing against my soul like the softest caress of dawn stealing softly into twilight’s embrace. Did I know her once in a world slipped from the grasp of time? Or perhaps she was but a figment of an unquiet mind, ever yearning for the sweetness of dreams.
An enigma without a form, or perhaps, an eternal question of the night's silent song: what color does love paint upon the canvas of oblivion?