The path is littered with roses and the ghosts of poems never written, each one whispering sweet nothings in a forgotten tongue. I walk this way under a sky of imagined nostalgia, where rainbows are but the tears of angels obscured by their own love for the ephemeral.
Do you remember the time we conversed with the moon? It was both jealous and intrigued, hanging in the air like a romantic fool caught in a love triangle with the stars and the sea.
Sweet Deceit: A Lament