Silken strands of melancholic light etch upon the horizon, dancing fervently upon the eyelids of reverie, unwound from the night's eclipsed cloak. Beneath this chorus of celestial shimmer, lies an untold resonance — hushed echoes from the phantom limb.
Your presence, a tapestry woven into the night's fabric in droplets of starlit remembrance, subsists in the grace of what once glanced upon this corporeal realm. Sometimes they say: it kisses lightly… the remnants fading, only shadows know its name.
Coruscant mirrors of dreams bereaved reflect solely in absence. Touch is a notion transformed to whispers, translucent like figment shrouding figment. A word, fallen, caught in memory’s desperate web.
Whisper, in fragments of ebb and flow, linger in the phosphorescent tide of being. Lament yet in harmony, drag our memory's shore and gather echoes in clinking dissevered seams.