In the soft night, Bobbie Dream poked the air with a ghostly finger. It felt like pink fluff melting in sunlight.
Once, I whispered a secret to the shadow on my wall, and it giggled back in echoes of yesteryears. Time is a funny thing, isn't it?
Sometimes, I look for shapes in the stars, and they show me faces of friends I've never met but somehow know.
The breeze has a way of holding hands with the twilight, spinning stories of things that might have been.
Notes from a phantom limb: