In the stillness between heartbeat and breath, the mirror whispers your name. It carries echoes, fragments of a love once woven into the very fabric of time itself. Beneath its cold surface lies a warmth I cannot touch but often long for. Shadows ripple through its depths, holding stories of us, lost in the murmur. A dance in the silhouette of moonlight, where every step is a word unspoken, every pause a secret kept by the wind.
"They linger, those moments, like a song without a melody, longing for harmony," I murmur to the glass, seeking solace in the reflections of a time that haunts yet comforts.
Can you see it? The way the twilight embraces our past with a tender resilience, refusing to let go even as it fades into darkness. The mirror knows. It holds the scent of roses that bloom beneath the frost, of letters never sent, buried within the heart's quiet corners. We were once infinite here, woven into the dreamscape, where reality bowed to the imagination's endless reach.