In the labyrinth of the heart, arranged with neatly folded dreams, crimson whispers dance under the silver weave. Silent echoes of passion roll across the parchment of time, descendants of a whispered moonlit sonnet. Here lie words unspoken, yet vividly felt, surrounding your name like shadows in the light of dusk.
They say ink bleeds for the untold stories it wishes to cradle, cradling the stars in its celestial lines, stitching constellations between heartbeats. Every sigh flows into the mainstream of eternity, carried by the sanguine undercurrent of soul melodies. Every heart, every reflection a universe—a cosmos in repose.
The mirror shimmers with soft ribbons of thought that cascade into dawn. Beneath each whispered echo, the reflection of ardor weaves invisible threads, knitting its embrace among transient clouds. Do you hear the echo in the ink?