Floating amidst echoes of solitude,
we grasp whispers,
like liquid silk slipping through grasping fingers.
Nights draped in melancholy,
streetlights bleed into imitating stars,
while shadows sway, wagging echoes of life before.
On this gentle cusp of wind-kissed dreams,
phantom chords burn bright;
they do not know silence.
Yonder kindred spirits swirl in introspection,
uncertain hues swirl like vapor,
lining brittle pages of memory.