Beneath the whispering willow,
a clock ticked backward, counting the
summers that never were.
Shadows danced in shades of periwinkle,
tracing loops in the air.
The taste of salt lingered on the lips
of a distant Tuesday,
forgotten clotheslines swaying
in the rhythm of untold stories.
They spoke in tongues,
languages of the lost.
On a street paved with memories,
long-forgotten names echoed
in the cracked pavements.
A purple kite flew high,
tangled in the strings of past dreams
and future reflections.