In silent corridors, where dreams once spiraled into the vague, unowned tapestries of imagination, whispers of such soft devotion linger. These shadows of words fall fleeting across the once vibrant presence in the room — a gravity well unoccupied, yet still finding way to anchor the heart's wanderings, a tether to galaxies forgotten.
She spoke without sound, the radiance of her ideas cast through the intersuffix of perception binding the curious soul. Would it be too much, the audacity of their repetition — like a leaf tossed into the stream and never returning, named all but lost? The morning was fresh, and each rustle of wind against the whispering clouds sketched doubts, seeking resolution but finding only question.
Recall them and remember none. Such is the paradox of memory, cherished and bound yet tethered by a mere whisper; such is the lone traveler amid forsaken kingdoms. Will we, in lingering uncertainty, ever reach beyond ourselves and comprehend the phenomenal murmurs poured across the skies, shaping constellations by the unattended glow of our inward eyes?
Below the tendrils of twilight your warmth becomes opaque. Visit the solitude or descend slowly into another mosaic.