In the depths of unuttered dreams
where whispers of the tide gather,
a solitary echo wanders.
It speaks not in voice, but in absence,
the kind that lingers long after a word is spoken.
Are you listening to these phantom footsteps,
tracing their way through the silence?
Perhaps it is merely the wind, a trick of the night;
shadows woven with threads of what was said,
or what was not said, to be more precise.
The tide carries these whispers, silently, gently,
each wave a soft reminder of the words that
linger with ghosts on the brink of memory.