On carousels turned by spectral hands, I heard their whispers...

"In '57, I'd promised to return, her smile a summer afternoon, yet tethered to a jigsaw sky, I drift."

"Amid your dearest possessions: streetcars and sunsets, tangled with regret. Surely they meant something, once..."

Her eyes a lighthouse, calling sailors home from the storm. Yet here beneath the spindle lights, time stalls, waits, and spirals.

Solutions are traced with fingers in sand, scattered and forgotten; memories like pearls.

Glance over the veil, catch the driftwood echo, find closure on someone else's tangent.