You once spoke, dear echo, from a place no more tangible than shadow. I cup my hand where you rested, hoping to cradle some vestige of your presence.
"Fingers of fog dancing across prairies of thought," you would declare, stretching into the immaterial.
The reminders weaved through moments—a fleeting itch of memory here, an unseen caress there, tracing lines across my skin.
"Remember the grip that held not a thing, yet grasped the universe in its non-holding."
At night, they tear at the boundaries, those lost fiends. With phantom teeth and phantom nails, they unveil deeper reflections that questioning silence cannot dispel.
I wonder, was our bond ever more than clutches to smoke? A dance upon places unenterable.
On this
reverie, I wonder aloud...
"To exist, even in absence, is to touch eternity with transient fingertips."
Yet, here we pause—the whisperers, the dreamers, capturing intangible captures.