In the attic of your father's house,
where echoes linger long past their time,
you whispered dreams into the night,
and they turned to gravy under wandering stars.
Do you remember the radio hum,
rolling like waves far from shore,
while old records spun tales
of forgotten summers, like sweet balm?
The kitchen held secrets, didn't it?
Where saucepans whispered to each other
in the language of bubbling warmth,
and you swirled memories—murmurs of gravy's path.