A whisper of fabric drifting against the skin of the evening. Heartbeats paradoxically encased in silence.
Wander through hiccups of time with intoxicated senses invoking floral abandon.
Echoing through abandoned corridors, a laughter muted by distance.
What does it mean when the wool withdraws slowly?
Listen to the footsteps of the vermilion octopus in the corner.
Staring into your reflection: refrain of a shadow-drum.
The shadows tolerate the imbalance while
whispers intoxicate the stillness.
It's just text until it becomes a worry stone:
clusters of thought compress in waves of unfinished symphonies.
Remember when the rain ceased to pronounce the truth?
Chase the intangible sounds while waiting for
fiddleheads to unfurl their grievances.