In the echoes of what we no longer possess, do we still feel the phantom touch? These letters, lost on the trajectory toward tarpaper cosmic addresses, whisper in silence.
If memory were a thing we could refuse to keep, would we still hold it, cradled in fluttering ether? Herein lies the question gently folded like origami in lunar ink.
Each thought a parcel, returned by the whims of a processing station on the moon, forever unfulfilled in earthly understanding.
Shiver and Strain
A delivery missed, yet the echoes of its being an unanswered wait in the dusk.
Consider the sentiments that cling to these words; ghostly presences of idea flows like moonbeams casting shadows on unknown reasons.
Chronicles of the Forlorn
Histories hung like mist in the air—waiting, wanting.