The stars shimmer through the garden, as if conferring secret wisdom on the silent echoes of the heart.
Do the sleepless constellations whisper stories of unattainable desires as they trace their nocturnal paths?
Last autumn, beneath a canopy of rust and gold, the world was painted in whispers.
Your laughter, I remember, interlaced with the afternoon sun, twinkled like an interstellar waltz
in another realm.
The evening kiss lingered too long, suspended in keening currents, and falling lightly
caught like dewdrops on cosmic whiskers at the edge of an impenetrable night.
Around the heart's periphery, galaxies expand, then collapse,
a ceaseless tide reminiscent of breathing in silence
unearthed nocturne.
There, in the fog of untamed memory,
a celestial cat strolls among planets, light-footed on the rings of forgotten dreams, curled
on the fabric of infinity as we strum those ancient heartstrings.