In the tender folds of twilight, where every sigh of the breeze becomes a sonnet, the leaves speak whispers. They cling to secrets older than time, cascading, like a lover's laugh carried on a current, free and fearless.
Do you recall the night under silk-swathed skies? Our confessions danced with the stars, illuminating shadows cloaked by daylight's order. We were wild, rapturous, like poems unscripted and uncharted—an erratic pulse of eternity's yearning.
Beneath this canopy, hearts weave the fabric of dreams; no tether to our names, simply echoes absorbed in the fragrant path of ambrosial whispers.