Brush my hand with midnight mist, cascade of whispers soaked in peace,
each splash shears silence into aching melodies—our hearts orchestrate
the ebb and flow of memory akin falling rain in secret gardens.
The party never ended; it simply slipped between the fingers of dawn,
glistening drops of light upon every shoulder touched by old qigong spirits.
Here where chords of love linger like arachnid webs, drawn tight;
a tapestry doused in velvet auroras invades even the stillest silence.
How naive, yet fantastical, this perpetual masquerade of our souls—
darling, join me in shadow-lit vertigo echoing all unanswered prayers.
Fetch the crescent dreams