The midnight oil dances, its gentle flickers reminiscent of the laughter echoing down old corridor walls, where once the sound of rain mingled with quiet voices, now just shadows cling to memory.
Outside, the whispers of leaves sing ballads of another life, one where the past breathes in colorful hues, and the nights stretch endlessly beneath a wide starry canopy, a canvas too vast for any single thought or longing.
Remember when we would ponder, beneath the soft, endless glow, the mysteries of the universe in our modest attic? Dust motes danced like tiny golden orbs, each a universe unto itself, caught forever in the amber glow of our dreams.
Lurking beneath the silent cypress, beneath the dappled moonlight, lies blood of roots feeding into the pages of old books, of half-spoken tales of wonder and woe, residing in sepia-toned memories, forgotten but alive.
Each flicker of light dances to the rhythm of an unseen pulse, a heart beating in tandem with ours, as the oil wicks whisper forgotten secrets across the stillness of the room. A remembered smile, a gentle sigh, the echoing I love you’s that once altered the course of our dreams.
Forgotten Lantern Echoing Dreams