In the silence, under the symphonies of absence, a wave rises, washes over. Memory, like a tide, pulls away only to return, an echo of the past lapping at the sands of the now.
Were we ever here, beneath the moon's gaze, cradled by the sea? Names whispered, scattered like shells forgotten by the ocean, letters etched in sand, fading with each caress of the brine.
The melody of the lost, a cacophony of unspoken truths, lingers in the salt air—a symphony, silent yet resounding in the chambers of the heart.
Do you remember the way the waves sang to us? (Or was it the wind?) How they composed their own opus, steeped in the secrets of the deep?
Between the lines, between the breaths, a forgotten sonata plays. The tide pulls at the strings of existence, each wave a note, each silence a pause in the grand composition of life.
And here, in the tidal memory, we dwell, adrift yet anchored in the silence of our symphonies.
Each tide, a new beginning, a renewal of the old, the familiar, the lost. Will you let it wash over you again? The choice echoing, as timeless as the sea.