In the whispers of yesterday, I hear you echoing through fragmented silence.
There's a river, dry and dusty like forgotten photographs, running through my mind.
I remember the blue scarf you always wore, but it was never blue, was it? Perhaps green, or maybe not at all.
Once, I wandered through a maze of mirrored memories.
Each reflection a different path; each step a story untold.
The air was thick with autumn, even in the heart of summer.
You spoke of dreams stitched together by the hands of fate, like some cosmic tapestry.
Misplaced echoes, misplaced tiles, and misplaced smiles.
The codiomatic verses of our lives dance oblivious to the structure.
I thought I saw the outline of a past I didn't live in the fog on the window this morning.
Was it ours, or merely borrowed?