In the corridors where daylight dances through dusty lace, I wander alone, tracing invisible fingers across weathered walls. The soft whispers of yesteryears cling to the air, a tender caress reminiscent of velvet nights strewn with fragrant dreams.
The echo of your laughter lingers still, a ghostly serenade rekindling the flicker of candlelight sundered by shadows deep. Each step a pilgrimage upon the marbled floors, a rhythm of heartbeats once harmonized, now fragmented into silken sighs.
Alone, yet not alone, the memory of your touch weaves through the intangible threads of time, binding moments that slip like grains of sand through the fingers, whispering secrets to the ghostly walls that once cradled love so vivaciously.
The echoes dream of what once was; they remember.
The walls listen, and speak in the language of longing.
The twilight hours linger longer here, painted with hues of cerulean and gold; they weave stories in the half-light, confessions of day to the starlit embrace. Would that I could gather these visions, cradle them as one does a newborn star's first breath, tender and radiant.
Would you join me in these halls, to ghost through the eternal dusk, hand in hand with the echoes of our unmade tomorrows? The doors remain ajar, inviting, though the paths beyond shimmer with mystery yet untold.