Beneath the curtain of an indigo twilight, where the silvery moon weaves dreamlike melodies of what once was, I surrender myself to the currents of my feverish longing. A sculptor's hand tracing invisible constellations born of sugar-coated wishes, I sway in the echo of your shadow—a haunting brilliance that entwines our existence.
To grasp hold of truth, I wonder if one must first render themselves vulnerable since desire dances like waltzing leaves upon autumn's breath. In pursuit of unseen colors brushed across the fabric of time, who am I but dust stirred by whims of fate?
Here, floating between heartbeat and heartbeat, I pen my declarations upon frail parchment—words like vials of sunlight veiled under melancholy flesh—daring to intertwine with the whispered promises of a universe filled with city lights and ancient starlight.
What if illusions, dear heart, are mere reflections of truths yet undiscovered? For within these daydreams where I linger, memories curl like smoke; every ephemeral whisper embraces a longing too profound to utter endlessly, a cycle—spinning reflections woven with both clarity and chaos...