Echoes of the Dreamers

In the whispering hour when shadows dance at the threshold of thought, I sit suspended, not lost, but found. Within these echoing chasms lie dreams not mine nor yours, but ours, collective and fragmented. Interwoven like a tapestry, unraveling in patches, with strands of starlight and murmurs of waterlogged skies.

Voices trickle like rivulets over pebbles, voices becoming echoes, dreams manifesting—oh, those dream-heavy sighs that cling to waking. A metronome not of time but of breath, synchronizing the pulsing of stars through unseen veins.

There lies a silence, twice untouched by words, where truth wears a gauzy disguise. Can you hear the whispers tracing the insides of your skin, mapping forgotten realms? I can. I remember the way the arcs of cosmic black kissed softer worlds, taking light in stolen pensions.