There are days where the light seeping through your curtains seems like a déjà vu from another world,
muffled whispers of what once was, echoes of laughter bouncing around the memories like paper airplanes caught in the wind.
I walked through old neighborhoods, cobbled paths faded beneath the weight of countless footsteps;
the scent of wet asphalt brings to mind summer storms, trapped emotions like raindrops in a bottle—the unsent letters stolen by time.
The old swings creak gently, retelling stories whispered secretly between children—half-forgotten promises, fleeting dreams, captured in the silence that follows laughter.
Tickets stubs mark where we once stood, arms thrown wide as we watched clouds morph, witnesses to slipping youth—a paintbrush in hand, painting life one shade at a time.
The loneliness of places once familiar wraps around you; it's an odd comfort when reminders crumple like receipts lost in pockets, and memories fade to the edges,
patiently awaiting an invitation to resurface.