Sometimes, you catch a whiff of that old feeling, like a forgotten friend brushing softly against your senses. "Where did you go?" you ask, but the question lingers unanswered, an echo in a house with no walls.
Do you remember how the air tasted on those deep, violet evenings? It's a flavor of shadows and whispers, the kind that creeps in when daylight sits on the horizon, unsure whether to leave or lean further in. If I could reach out, I would deliver you that taste, bottled, sealed tightly, just like the way we used to keep secrets—never meant for anyone else's lips.
There's a rustling sound, isn't there? Or was it the memory of a rustle? Like leaves caught in a wind dance, it teases the edges of reality, a soft nudge from... somewhere you can't quite place. Sometimes, I pretend it's you, trying hard to give me directions, only to discover the path is somewhere in the past.