The Shifting Truth

The echoes of laughter charted the course on rainy Tuesday mornings, while the smell of wet asphalt merged with the fading scent of grandma's cookies.

Glass marbles swirling in the backyard pool, blue like the sky I never saw, ever since I met you during the summer of '89.

Destination is just an illusion; the journey spirals through a labyrinth of tangled wishes and fleeting dreams.

Sometimes, I wonder why the clock chimes thirteen and the garden gnomes wink at their secrets on full moon nights. Figure that out.

The sound of gravel crunching beneath unfamiliar boots, painting trails of nostalgia in places we never walked, but somehow this feels like home.

Patterns emerge from the scatter of stars across the velvet sky, trails spun from whispers of ancient tongues.

When the world turned orange, we danced barefoot in the autumn leaves, believing in forever like it was yesterday.

By the river's edge, I remember the promises made on paper boats that never reached shore, lost in the currents of time.

There's a truth hidden behind the veil of everyday moments—a truth that whispers when silence reigns.