A soft glow in the corridors of memory, where whispers dance like shadows—
You were never there when the silken fog enveloped the arches of time, yet your silhouette, engraved in the mist, haunts me still.
Mirrors that mock, mirrors that tease, showing a lover's form, but not their face.
As I wander this corridors, with walls tremulous and alive, every step is a symphony misplayed, a gentle lament that echoes unendingly through these twisted halls. The paths diverge and converge in ways unforeseen, an unrelenting love song sung by the dissonance itself.
A wisp of your hair caught in the memory's breeze—a crimson trace against a pearl white nothing, lost yet present, like the scent of a rain unshed.
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