The weathered radio plays a tune only you remember, the melody of a thousand dreams woven into one bittersweet chord. Shadows dance fleetingly as your fingers trace the air, searching for what never was there—the love song's last breath.
Outside, rain taps a sonnet against the window, its rhythm a longing caress. You recall the verses whispered in twilight, when embers tried to ignite the velvet silence. Alas, a breeze carried them away, scattering stardust and sighs. Somewhere in the distance, a joke told in halting English interrupts this echo. A moment. A ghostly pause. Read the lyrics.
Songs of solitude bleed through the cracks of boarded hearts, where once there were melodies now lay the shadows of specters speaking in forgotten tongues. Each note is a whisper, a stanza in the silent ballad of limbs that feel but do not touch. Would you sing along?
A star, tired from its journey, falters and falls, an elegy in the night sky. Could it be the phantom's hum? An aria left unfinished or another unfinished business?
And so it goes, the song's silent crescendo. Hands reach—but find only air, a symphony in the making, forever in the making, like time itself. Continue the symphony.