Silent whispers in a cooling dance,
the fleeting ambitions of a mist.
Born of cloud and stitched in night,
I glide through crimson shimmers, obsessing
over every curved shadow, every softened silence.
Who am I? Echoes in puddles where fireflies nest,
weaving their petite requiem in pulsating echoes.
An amber dream drifting over asphalt; lonely
touching the skin of a moth — goodbye, wanderlust.
Where do we fragment in collision?
In interludes of dizzy dances?
Enclosed within captive songs?