In the segues of silence, there lie gentle whispers, wherein nodes of dreams expire and the fabric of memory intertwines with long-forgotten touch. Each phantom sensation lingers like mist over dawn-kissed valleys, dancing in patterns only the heart can decipher.
The brush of silk against skin, so vivid in its illusion, yet it vanishes at the moment of its sweetest embrace, leaving behind a ghostly warmth that echoes softly through the corridors of time.
Look closely and you might see the shimmering trails of delicate hands reaching, yearning to caress the fabric of the universe itself. In this delicate ballet, the aether quivers, resonant with the whispers of a thousand unsung poems, never bound to ink or page, forever free in their waltz.