There is a pie on the counter, cooling slowly under the dim kitchen light. It's an ordinary pie, just a gift for a Sunday evening. Yet, every morsel seems infused with thoughts unsaid, stacked upon woven crusts of forgotten dreams.
The crust groans, breathing old promises in quietude; each crumble a fleeting whisper resonating within cold corners.
The filling, sweetened a touch too much, carries bouquets of unchecked ambitions sprouting from a life less tasted.
Beside the pie, a note scribbled on parchment catches glimpses of your thoughts: "Share it not with absent souls; tonight is but a dirge meant only for those who wander here in silence, itching with endless symphonies playing perilously behind thoughts projected on translucent mind canvases."