She walked through the hollow clock staving fractures of the morning whispers ringing; she’d forgotten the time, and the clocks forgot too, like a room full of sleeping metronomes, strands of music tracing the ceiling's edge.
Anchored in the ebbing tide of her daydreams were moments lost beneath the sands of sepia memories— once-certain gazes now reflectionless, waiting for the light that never comes.
Outside the window that wasn't there, ghosts of unspoken words and relentless questions float, tethered only to the breath of her solitary muse nurtured gently by the soft updraft of whispered intent.
Does the wind sing different songs in forgotten places, secluded by palm fronds and ropes of night mist? She once believed in the tales spun by itinerant clouds that tinted her thoughts with distant horizons.