Walking down dream-paved avenues, sensing the pavement’s pulse. Conversations leftover from yesterday stewing in the corners of the mind, bringing forth traumas dulcet in decay.
The light filters through oak leaves, casting shadows that weave between the trivial and profound. Children laughing, while the sun freckles their skin. A thousand fleeting seconds blending into the chorus of today.
In that moment, a door creaks open. The smell of lemonade wafts like a wisteria blossom in the wind. We forget crisp, sharp moments, allowing nostalgia to tether us in moonlight.
A note found in an old coat pocket, ink smudged by tear-damp fibers. Words tangled together between dinners at dusk and echoes of an unfinished song.