You can't quite remember where it started, probably over a coffee that turned lukewarm in the sun-drenched morning. It's like standing on a soft shore of a vast ocean while watching the water dance at distance. Sometimes, I believe, you can still hear those echoes—faint whispers from dreams we didn't pursue.
"Do you remember," you jut out your chin, like you're fishing for a reply, "the night we tried to find our way by the stars?" Those stars. The well-worn path we walked beneath, foolishly traipsing like young children seeking treasures of spirit more than material.
There's magic in moons and tides—they align when they're stuck on whims. Much like the stories clinging to memory— snippets caught just below the conscious surface, dances of light swaying beneath blue veil.
Reflective musings like the sound of slowly churning machinery deep down in the sea—a grammatical echo always a little just out of reach. How mysterious it is, voices we crave, long before knowing we've carved out space for them in our heart's cabinetry!
Beneath the Currents See Through the Mist The Tide That Touches Horizon