Once upon a half-whisper, the stars sang in fragmented lullabies. Their syllables brushed softly against the veils of twilight, echoing tender admissions even shadows feared to claim as their own.
If the night could speak, would it sing? Maybe not, maybe just sighs colored in shades of forgotten emerald dreams. You must listen carefully; the sound is almost like a breeze cracking open a window in reality.
Ah, these insomniac hymns. They weave through the rafters of dilapidated understanding, curled menacingly around those melodies lost in daylight’s unforgiving embrace. Would you remember? Perhaps only in fragments, glistening like dew upon fences overgrown with waking eyes.
And when you close your eyes, are you there? Caught in a slipstream of murky rivulets, where ripples carve paths in whispers too soft for touch. It is colder now—so beautifully stark.
Let the night cradle its imagined infancy; let it cradle yours too.