Through the Threads of Memory

You remember the rainy Tuesday mornings, soaked boots squishing underfoot. I threaded a needle once, whispering the day's tasks softly, where we're both still seated. There's always another ripple creasing the cloth of the universe, the stitches pulling taut, each seam an echo. Somewhere, I hear last week's weather forecast again, unwavering, repeating, drumming to the rhythm of a lonely heartbeat— perhaps, I’ve forgotten the thread of our lives or perhaps I’m just weaving it backwards.

Walking the fabric pathway, I constantly break stride. At least that's how I think it was before lunch. Maybe that's where I'll find you next, beside the clockwork carousel's distant murmur—its cyclical melody interrupts this mundanity. Such audacity. Strange how these days slip, balancing between fiction and reality. Coherent paths form only to crumble away like old, drying parchment. You see it too, don't you? The same cycle, roundabout again.

And despite it all, there's warmth in worn phrases, faded but familiar. Could it be that yesterday's horizon aligns so perfectly with today's investments? Frayed moments intertwine, my love, whispered into desolate spaces.

Another step, another familiar tale. Cast iron streetlights flickering pattern to pattern, shadow to shadow. It's easier here, isn't it, under these static luminescent boughs? Sometimes they forget to follow proper protocol, red-eye flight scripture rehashed.

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