In the quiet hour just before dawn, there flies a dream.
It whispers
of fields where time unravels and space ceases its hold.
You wander through a lane paved with memories of grey.
Each step displaces dust from the past, bright in its absence.
Paths converging, diverging,
mirroring an echo of a voided embrace.
Do you remember when the sky tasted of old photographs?
The silhouettes
of trees caught in a story never told, never begun.