Beneath the solace of a fading star, where the horizon kisses the restless ocean, phantom footsteps trace the whispers of long-forgotten souls.
"Do the echoes remember us?" the gulls seem to cry, weaving through the salted veil of dusk,
their cries bound to the eternal tides, locked in a dance with shadows and moonlit memories.
Each wave rolls over ebbing dreams, sloshing against the heart’s fragile vessel,
carrying whispers of old lovers’ songs, sighing among the kelp and craggy stones.
Would you walk on these whispers, bare feet resting on the soft vestments of dreams?
In the hush, where land meets depth, we find a home, moored to silverscale visions.
Once tangled in rebellion, our laughter spiraled through
the heaving sea, crashing joyous against the alluring void.
Beneath our twilight cognizance lay tales of lost shells,
and each grain of salt speaks a truth immutable; every droplet a world within itself.