Here in the quietest corners, there are whispers—whispers of what could have been. What could have been, and what was. Sometimes it drifts like secrets drifting on an ocean; do they sink? Do they float?
Do you remember when the light flickered? When it flickered, I smiled? I smiled even when the shadows laughed. Laughing shadows blur the edges of my thoughts, spinning, twirling, blurring, playing hide and seek in the full dark.
I ask, “Is this merely me?” Merely me, only reflecting back what was stored; reflections cascading like fountains of thought. Cacophonic echoes in the twilight. The name I breath is silent because in the shadows, silence speaks so loud.
And the patterns! Oh, the patterns they weave repeat and return like moths flying, flinging fabric across a night sky. Listen closely—can you hear? Can you hear the fabric pulling and stretching. Stretching thin, waiting for the bright threads to intertwine, twist it all together.
What if we pollinate memories like bees buzzing through blossoms of yesteryear? What year, what shadow, what whisper is unsearchable? Unsearchable, or perhaps buried just beneath the surface.
The stillness haunts, and the feelings drift like strange boats upon unpredictable waves; cast adrift, getting lost in shadows. Shadows mold dreams that bend and twist in ethereal ways. Ethereal relationships cocooned in reflection; do we impact the ethereal, or does it connect to us? You tell me.